


The Forgotten Ocean

by ImpossibleElement



Series: The Dragon's Spell [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Dragons, Drama, Fantasy, First Kiss, Gen, Heroes & Heroines, John continues to be perfect, Johnlock Roulette, M/M, Magic, Movie: Descendants 2, Mystery, POV Alternating, Pirates, Right and Wrong, Romance, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Slow Burn, Teenlock, The Rotten Apple, Villains, sherlock tries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-01
Updated: 2019-07-31
Packaged: 2020-02-15 17:03:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 82,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18673846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ImpossibleElement/pseuds/ImpossibleElement
Summary: “Something is coming, Sherlock.” He commented. His taunting voice piercing through the room just as Sherlock was trying to leave. “Something so deliciously big you won’t see coming until it’s too late.” He assured, a prophecy spoken with sure words.“And when the whole kingdom is in ashes, it won’t matter on which side of the dome you belong.”______As Sherlock is weighed down by the pressure of being a perfect citizen, he must figure out what he is while a new enemy sets their sight on Auradon, threatening to tear the kingdom and everything Sherlock holds dear apart.SEQUEL TO THE ROTTEN APPLE





	1. Prologue: The War Of The Light

**Author's Note:**

> So... After almost a year I finally am able to continue this story. This instalment will be the middle part of my Descendants inspired trilogy.
> 
> Disclaimer: This work is loosely based on a plot line of Disney's Descendants Franchise. If you haven't seen it, or don't like it, please know that you can read it and understand everything. None of the actual characters of Descendants appear. For those of you who have seen it, you know where this is going. Also, there are a few nods to the original hidden not very subtly in the narration.
> 
> Updates will happen every 7 to 10 days, so be on the look out.
> 
> Hope you all like it.

[ ](https://ibb.co/xLyJdkH)

 

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> _ War is any armed conflict or state of intense opposition between different groups or ideologies.  
>  The key to winning is to be prepared to do whatever needs to be done to  
>  ensure your victory, that is to expend any resources at hand. _ 

 

 

“ The sun!” A voice could be heard exclaiming from deep within the sea of running people. “Something’s wrong with the sun!” It yelled desperately, conveying the most frantic of tones. 

It had all started as every other atrocious event begins: quietly. Just a normal morning, with people going about town in the same manner as any other mind-numbingly ordinary day; the crowd conformed of common people minding their own common business and with no clue to the change their lives were about to experience forever. Everything was just the same; until someone stopped. For whatever reason, be it exhaustion or contemplation, or perhaps something as boring as tying up one’s shoelaces; but sooner or later someone stops and looks around —or up in this instance— and notices something that defies the otherwise never-ending routine.

After a few still moments, the situation pivoted, and what was deadly silent bursted out into the loudest chaos. The crowd once frightened and still as statues, exploded into panic as soon as they noticed the swirling changes on the sky above their heads, and the strange quality of the light coming down on their bodies. No one really knowing exactly what had shifted, just aware that there was something absolutely, definitely, deadly _wrong._

A little boy toddled his way through the rising chaos, unusually skilled in walking among the panic and devastation, moving his chubby little legs across town with haste and determination, doing his best to avoid being trampled by the rushing people and squinting his eyes to stare at his surroundings, as if attempting to figure out what had made all those people so scared.

Said boy had walked over a great distance from where he was supposed to be, but even at his very young age, he knew better than to care at all for useless things like expectations and responsibilities. He ran away from the voice calling his name piercing through the ocean of chaos in an attempt to locate his whereabouts. He had managed to slip past the eye of those tasked with keeping him where he should, but the little miscreant was not yet ready to return; there was finally something fun going on, and he just needed to find out what it was.

In the back of his mind, he had a vague notion of the world around him growing steadily dull and dark; but he paid it no mind now that he was finally free to roam around and explore to his heart’s content. His tiny feet carried him away from the calling voice as he ran until he found himself at the docks. Opening his eyes wide to an even bigger commotion running its course there. 

The sailors were abandoning their ships, frantically swimming to shore as if chased by some unseen attacker, but the boy with the opal eyes failed to understand the reason. He couldn’t see what was so scary as to drive them out so fiercely aside from the big waves crashing violently unto the rocks. For that toddler, a life at sea aboard a ship, wandering the oceans sounded like the best possible option on which he could think to spend one’s days, and definitely the last place he could imagine anyone running away from.

The screams grew much louder and desperate, but he still couldn’t figure out why those present cowered away from the water as if it were poisoned. He approached the shore, as the crystalline water splashed on his face and clothes, drenching him completely for his efforts. He looked up, but the light coming from the sky was fading, like when clouds covered the sun, except there were no clouds to be seen. 

Suddenly, as he was distracted, the scene changed too. But instead of developing into disaster as it had in the city, the atmosphere stopped completely and the sea fell still as a tomb. The boy’s breathing quickened, there was no denying that, but he was also very curious. The colours of the water transformed from bright blue and turquoise, to the deepest mix of teal and black; as if festered liquid were spiralling over the surface and contaminating everything in its way. Like a single drop of blood spoiling an ocean of the clearest tides. The child halted in his pace and walked over to the shoreline, he bent closer to examine the strange water in front of him and was delighted by the sight. He frowned, and got even closer, the scene around him forgotten for the moment as he tried to decipher the most terrifying and interesting thing he had encountered. The dark waters had transformed, and they no more resembled waves, instead they moved about like thick tentacles coming from the deep.

Just as he was about to reach out and tentatively touch one of the moving appendixes with careful fingers, the choice was abruptly taken out of his hands as he felt a violent force —probably one of those sailors rushing away in terror and carelessly shoving away anyone on their path— push at his back and plunge him into the water; but the boy had no time to think about that, since he was swiftly sinking through the depths of the ocean. An all-encompassing black surrounded him completely and crushed his little body with pressure. The boy moved his arms and legs uncoordinatedly, trying to rid himself of the watery trap;but he was unable to lift out to the surface. The water like arms coiling around his limbs and dragging him down into a far abyss.

He fought and fought, uselessly attempting to back away from the strange-looking water; but eventually his limbs grew tired of the struggle and the terror squeezing his soul for what he saw rendered him unable to keep resisting the pull of the waves for much longer. 

His fight came to an end as he floated surrounded by the cold, vast emptiness. 

His eyes, tired and defeated, were starting to close as he slowly lost consciousness, when he noticed something strong and sturdy grasped him from under the armpits and tugged him. He didn’t know what it was, he just felt the ocean around him move as he was dragged up. 

Just before he was about to break into the open air, his gaze caught sight of something very strange. A big pair of bright teal eyes staring at him from the deep; looking at him as if they knew him; and that was the moment when the boy started to try and reach the surface faster. He stared at them for a few more moments until they grew very small as they got left behind when he broke out into the water line and was kissed by the fading sun.

Once on the shore, he coughed up an incredible amount of water and stared up at the eyes of the stranger that had basically just saved his life. At this, the man gasped and backed away, hurrying in fear the moment he saw the bright mop of soggy violet curls on top of the boy’s head, sticked to his young forehead in innocent charm. The boy was left there, alone, utterly confused as he watched the retreating back of his unexpected saviour, and wondering what about him could had made a hardenedsailor more afraid of a boy than of the terrifying tendrils they had seen in the ocean.

The tides were crashing at the rocks on the beach again, the sea awake once more; yet the suffocating atmosphere was not able to leave them. There was an unrelenting frown on the toddler’s face, as he looked back at the water from which he was escaping; because whatever that _thing_ had been, could surely not reach him on dry land, could it? The boy scrambled away from the lapping waves and rolled over until he was sitting on the shore.

That is how his brother found him. Not even sure of what had happened. His brother’s eyes strange, as he grabbed forcefully on his thin arms and yanked him forward. The older boy started running, while the toddler struggled to keep up with his unrelenting pace. His tiny feet were padding swiftly as he avoided tripping, worried he would be left behind were he to fall. 

“Don’t look back.” The older commanded, his stern tone in complete contrast with his frantic movements. Desperately sweeping the both of them away from a still unknown threat.

“But-” The little boy tried to counter, all the more anxious to see what they were getting away from now that he had been told _not_ to look. He tried turning his head, but was still too young to coordinate that much running and shaking his hand to dislodge the other’s painful grip on his wrist, to see behind him too. He wasn’t even able to wipe away the water that was splashing on his face when his rushing set loose droplets from his wet curls.

“No!” The brother cut him off, taking a second to look at the other in the eyes and plead. “Just, don’t.” He commanded, just before resuming their frantic escape through the docks. The deep blue eyes had looked at him in dread and fear, and the boy could not remember ever seeing either of those emotions over his brother’s face before.

It was with this thought in mind—or perhaps a series of thoughts culminating in this one— that the little boy finally managed to turn his head around, just the tiniest bit; only to be immediately bewitched when he saw something translucent advancing from the shore and wipe out everything in its path.

 

 


	2. Chapter 1: Impersonating a Human Being

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> _I ntentionally copying another person or creature’s characteristics, such as their behaviour, speech, appearance, or expressions, can be very useful when trying to execute bad deeds; required the impersonation is so well done that no one notices the difference._

 

 

 

The water was turbulent. Shinning bright turquoise and bubbling up as it came into a boil. Three young students were gathered around a enormous cauldron, beneath the great, black sky of the night. One of them tossing the key elements into the mix, while other stirred the liquid. The apples floating to the surface as the incantation was made. The leader of the group, with long legs and vibrant curls, should hate this, —in fact, he sort of did— but old magic had a way to open up your world to every possibility imaginable, but never without coming with some ridiculous and _clichéd_ task attached to it.

His laughing companions were able to make him join in the wicked delight of what they were about to unleash. The book inside his coat was well-worn and half-learned by now, and there was nothing that could stand between him and the deliverance of his devilish visions.

The temperature of his body was rising, as the anticipation collected inside him, he had his mind set on some trouble and the halls of the institution were to be their first victim. The three of them strode over the corridors, smiling as no one had ever seen them do, and carrying with them the items that were about to turn this dull, chokingly bland place into a funhouse of the best sort. 

When they approached the first student, a girl about their age apparently worried about something or other, they halted. Sherlock smirked and leaned forward to offer her something, his pale spidery hand presenting her with a big, red smooth apple that glinted in the artificial light of the hallway. His eyes were watching her with a mix of amusement and ridicule, as if daring her to have the guts to accept it. At first, she eyed them all with suspicion, but soon, she was too intimidated by the seemingly innocent treat that she found herself reaching out and taking a big bite out of it. A poisoned treat from a villain —an apple, no less—was the oldest trick in the book, and he couldn’t believe these morons were actually eating it up, —even in the most literal of senses. After that, everything else came to pass too quickly.

They continued to stroll around the grounds of the school, smirk painted over their faces as they delighted in the various scenes they had created. Sherlock turned to his both sides, having Irene and Greg staring back at him in satisfaction as they silently congratulated him for a brilliant plan. 

Just a few moments later the whole student body was in chaos, the curse icing the apples forcing everyone present to act out on their evil, most wretched thoughts; the ones stashed deep inside the darkest part of their souls and powered by the worst intentions. Everything resulting in a disaster that Sherlock had missed as nothing else. 

Not ones to stand away from trouble for long, soon the three of them found themselves right at the middle of it all, as they had done a hundred times before. Greg hanging off from a flag pole and practicing his throws with the members of the marching band, as they were brutally assaulted by several apples coming their powder-blue-clad way, and Irene had already clacked her sleek black boots away and into the classrooms, where she had her eye on several uproars and debaucheries that would have the kingdom talking for cycles to come. 

The boy with the violet hair and grey eyes lazily sprayed the locker doors with bright green paint and laughed when some random citizen snatched the bottle of paint from his pale hand and proceeded to do the honours himself. He alternated between watching a gang of young students tie their teacher to the fountain in the garden and casting spells to sprinkle some magical mischief to the already insane situation. The rebel flipped his leather-coat collar up and gave a condescending smile to any frowning bystanders that had yet to try a bite of the delicious freedom they were offering.

After some moments, he watched as his partners in crime were returning to his location as he climbed up to the base of The Beast’s statue and proceeded to vandalise the proud and honourable monument. The sun was shinning down on his back, but he did not mind the strange brightness, nor the heat. The reckless morning was enough to keep him distracted, ignoring anything that was not him and the blissful sound of rebellion, changing the landscape on the monotonous days since he had arrived to the kingdom. All the dull, ordinary people finally acting as real people, instead of the stunted, hollow, hypocritical robots that often paraded around school as if they had all the answers. There was nothing Sherlock loved more than proving people wrong.

In the distance, there was a figure he more than recognised, his blonde hair, blue eyes and incredibly confused face approaching him as the kids around him did nearly everything that was deemed ‘wrong’ in the eyes of the intense morality they cherished on the realm. Sherlock ignored the racing of his heart at the sight and grabbed from his pocket the last apple he had left, smirking as he rubbed off any dust on its surface over his black coat. He gave the red, shiny peel a kiss and threw it in the blonde’s direction.

The moment the fruit touched John’s palm someone called Sherlock’s name and startled him; and just like that, he was transported back out of his Mind Palace and into the harsh light of the camera flashes that now came attached to the reality that awaited him beyond his fantasies of wickedness and mischief and left him blinking annoyedly. The dozen reporters crowding him near the Royal Garden statues were staring at him in expectation, while half of them alternated between calling his name and asking several questions which he could not really begin to know how to respond. Well, at least not in a way that would be deemed ‘appropriate’ by the kingdom in which he now resided. 

“Sherlock!” One of them yelled over the other voices, a woman who Sherlock could already deduce was there just so she could get the promotion out from under her loathed co-worker’s feet. “Over here, Sherlock!” She yelled, as his silver eyes traced every figure in front of him. He squirmed in his dove grey trousers and adjusted the light lavender shirt he wore. It was becoming more and more difficult to stay in the moment, just wishing he could somehow live inside his own Mind Palace. Where the world was fun, and there were no reporters, and his hair was still purple.

“How does it feel being the most envied person in Auradon?” Another voice asked, their faces already getting blurred together by his disinterest. Not knowing where to focus, Sherlock decided to scowl generally and try not to show how much he despised all of them. Anything would be better than yet another inane question about his appearance.

“What inspired the change of hair?” Sherlock sighed and tugged at the mentioned brunette curls. Shorter than they used to be and carefully styled on top of his skull. He hated having to explain the reasoning behind it, it was already enough that Molly glared at him every time she got sight of him, and she didn’t even know how he had gotten them.

“Only three days to the Royal Cotillion,” A man chipped in from behind the crowd, waving his microphone and juggling the camera as he attempted to get closer to the centre of the ring, as if Sherlock didn’t already know that. “Ever thought a bastard orphan like yourself would end up being Lord of the Court?” The man asked, and the rebel frowned. His fists balled and his breathing was starting to come quicker. He failed to know what was he supposed to say in a situation such as this, was everyone expected to smile and laugh after being asked so stupid a question?

The curly-haired boy stuffed his hands inside the soft blazer and falsely smiled, awaiting the onslaught of rumours and predictions that would come forth, as they often tended to do when this things ran too long. If four moon-cycles of doing this had taught him anything, it was that sharks like them would bent the heavens for an answer, even if they had to make one up themselves. “Is Moriarty still trapped?” The man asked.

Sherlock was about to answer — whether rudely or reluctantly polite was still to be determined— when he was cut off by another voice coming from behind the crowd. “Okay. Alright.” He said, and Sherlock let go of the breath he was holding, as the journalists made way for their King, the only light inside Sherlock’s suffocating hell. “Excuse me,” He muttered as he got closer to him and smiled that winning grin which the rebel would be caught dead before he admitted to find charming. John approached him and wrapped and arm around his waist; he turned to look at him, a question in his gaze. Sherlock nodded so John smiled reassured and leaned near the microphone to speak slow and clearly. “We will let you know if and when that particular situation changes.” He said, but the reporters did not appear to be completely satisfied.

John eyed Sherlock carefully, as the other raised his eyebrows in contemplation. “Your Majesty,” One of the reporters called, and John smiled kindly at her in encouragement. Sherlock was often amazed at the never-ending patience that seemed to ooze out of the new king. He wondered how much of it was trained and groomed since he was little more than a royal infant, and how much of it was just him. The blue-eyed grinned softly, but the woman did not relent on her intrusive pushing. “Did you ever think you would be with a villain kid?” She asked, at which John laughed a little loudly, and smiled sideways. The rebel watched in fascination as that dangerous grin darkened John’s expression. “We’re done here.” He declared and turned around to face Sherlock once more.

Sherlock scowled and placed his hand over the other’s arm as John leaned in and squeezed tighter the hold he had on the other’s back. Paying only half a mind to Lady Hudson shooing away the commotion. “Leave the boys alone,” She said, as a mother chastising her naughty children. “This is a school, after all.” The tone she used was enough to make even the wisest warlocks and battle-tested knights cower in shame. “I can get the guards to escort you out for trespassing.” She threatened, waving her arms about as John and Sherlock stood back and watched as the multitude of faces thinned away into the morning air. 

“Thank you.” The blonde muttered to her, as she waved her hand in dismissal and smiled. “Don’t worry about it.” Lady Hudson answered, patting her godson’s cheek with a lace-gloved-hand. The easy affection to the royal was a feeling to which the silver-gazed boy could relate more than he would care to admit. “Sherlock.” She regarded him and scurried away to continue with her many occupations as Defender of Light and headmaster of the school.

Once they were both alone, Sherlock let out an exasperated breath and rolled his eyes, as John chuckled with him and softly smiled. “Don’t pay attention to them.” He told him, his eyes kind and filled with concern as he glanced up at him. Sherlock was unsure in whether he found the king’s sentiment reassuring or even more frustrating. He shrugged in indifference, anxious to stop wasting their time on the lot of them. “They’re idiots, right?” The blonde joked, clearly attempting to appeal to the rebel’s predilection for insult, as he often did when he wanted to ease the tension.

“Is that news?” Sherlock sighed as his fidgety hands attempted to shift into comfort the stifling shirt he wore. The heat and the noise felt particularly suffocating today. 

“I know, I know.” The royal responded, grinning good-naturedly and reaching a hand to card trough the brunet curls on top of the other’s head. Sherlock half-smiled and felt his breathing return to normal after the onslaught of annoying intrusions; his days were usually too crammed by responsibilities and pointless obligations already. “Maybe we should do something, just the two of us.” John proposed, lighting interest in Sherlock’s otherwise brooding gaze. “Get away for an afternoon.” The blue-eyed explained and placed a hand on the taller boy’s shoulder. His expression open and hopeful.

“I would be partial to that.” Sherlock replied, the corner of his smirk already curving up as he imagined what sort of adventures they could achieve if left alone for an evening. Images swirling in his head of the two of them finally being allowed a moment to breathe away from those dull interviewers and hypocritical idiots. 

“So what do you say if we-” John started, hooking his arm around the silver-gazed boy’s neck, only to stop abruptly once he caught a glimpse of his watch. His halt made words and deductions crash into Sherlock’s vision, as he hastily picked apart the reason to his hesitation. “You have another council meeting.” He declared, not really needing John to confirm it at all. The blonde nodded nonetheless, and shrugged apologetically. They both hated those meetings, which were mandatory, and recurrent, and often ran long into the night; and now were also the reason why they couldn’t do as they pleased. “When?” The rebel asked, because it purely was the only question that was left to be answered, because no matter what he or anyone else ever wanted, the kingdom needed John Watson.

The king grimaced and closed his eyes in a wince. “Ten minutes ago.” He said as he dislodged himself off the embrace and stepped back. “We’ll do it sometime.” He promised and leaned in to kiss him. The younger boy was about to back up when slender fingers closed in around his wrist and yanked him even further away. Sherlock turned around outraged, only to be met with Irene’s red smile and very determined expression. 

“Sherlock,” She started. “The royal tailor has been waiting on your room for the fitting of your Cotillon suit for ages.” Her tone was that special brand of sultry and chiding that only she managed to pull off, and Sherlock was already too on edge to handle being chastised by her at the moment. “If you don’t do it now, you’ll be dancing in your dressing gown.” Irene said, but her eyes sparkled as if she really wished for him to miss his appointment just so she could witness that happening. 

“Hello, John.” She smirked at the king as he waved in greeting. She flicked her dark indigo hair behind her ear and arched an eyebrow in appreciation. Sherlock rolled his eyes for the hundred time that evening and dragged Irene far from her schemes; muttering a _‘Goodbye, John.’_ and scurrying away. Turning around to watch John look at him and smile softly. Feeling a pit of dread settle on his stomach at the sight.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Sherlock stood in the middle of the room. Placed above a small platform as the tailor next to him took measurements and scratched things into a notebook. The scowl on the boy’s face only matched by the horrid colour of the suit he had on. 

The room around him was chaos. With books and science equipment scattered over every surface, as well as a few items of dubious precedence that he had acquired during their various visits to other lands. It appeared as if, as soon as he realised he would be staying in Auradon for more time than he had previously planned, his chamber had started to grow a life of its own. The rebel filling every crevice with bits and pieces of his explosive personality until the whole thing looked like a well lived-in mess. Needless to say, Greg had unapologetically run for the hills at the first encounter with a dead… _something_ and had demanded to be switched.

Sherlock was now busy throwing insults at the tailor, as Irene was perched over his bed giving her unsolicited opinion on what she thought would look good on his attire. The older man placed the last intricate blue patterns over his shoulders and he stood back to admire the finished look, ignoring the boy’s clear disgust over his expression.

“Now _that_ is royal.” Irene said, eyes sparkling in approval. And the rebel could think of a few other adjectives that came to mind when he looked at himself in the mirror. 

Turning around to glare at her, he growled “I look like a royal _moron_ ,” The silver-gazed boy shifted in the stiff trousers in an unfruitful attempt to make himself more comfortable in those clothes. He waved a hand to the couturier’s apprehensive face. The tailor, realising the gesture was as good a dismissal as he would probably get, scurried away in quiet but swift motions; impatient to get out of the room. “Does it have to be yellow?” The silver-gazed boy asked, as his arms flopped down his sides in exasperation.

One corner of Irene’s mouth turned up in a sly grin, her eyes filled with amused delight. “They’re the King’s colours.” She said, as the other rolled his eyes and turned back to the mirror. His hands gripping the blue tie and twisting it in a frail attempt to loosen it up.

The girl approached his figure and batted his hands away, a disapproving glare in her face. Sherlock stood back and said, in a tone that sounded very much like a sulk, “I can’t breathe.” His dark eyebrows frowned as he ran a hand through his brunette curls; the tips of which were still slightly tinted purple; his magical ability clearly too powerful to completely override even itself. He grimaced at the sight, specially since he had to pretend the tips had been intentional. He couldn’t really tell Molly he had learnt to bend magic that way after all, because that was exactly the problem: he was not allowed to use magic anymore; he was _supposed_ to be different now.

“You can breathe after Cotillion.” Irene said, as she made him twirl around twice to make sure every inch of his trousers was exactly as tight as she wanted it. Sherlock concluded he had liked it better when she was too busy trying to gain fame and riches through blackmail to actually care for his wellbeing. At least it had been less embarrassing then. 

“As usual, you are mistaken,” He snarled, finally managing to get the stupid tie _off_ and opened up a few of the shirt’s buttons. “I have at least seventeen events right after this one.” The rebel explained, as his friend did her best to show him how uninterested in his moaning she was. The girl had learned to deal with his bad temper —which was, more often than not, his usual temper— cycles ago. Sherlock’s clever gaze danced around the room in search for distraction from his upcoming obligations. His eyes landed on the sleek black coat hanging from a hook behind the closed door. The glorious coat that he was no longer allowed to wear, in fear of standing out too much among the Auradon crowd, but with which he was unable to part. His lips curled as his fingers picked at the golden buttons of his blazer. “Do you ever wonder what we’d be doing if we were still back at The Isle?” He asked her. Making a point to let her look anywhere but at his face.

“Ha!” Was her eloquent answer, laughing as she walked to the desk and flicked on the television on the far panelled wall. “You’re on the Telly.” Irene commented and sat down on a couch, crossing her legs and arranging the sweetheart neckline of her blue dress. 

_“…As the royal couple continued their tour around the kingdom they dined with the prince of the Sand Lands…”_ The voice on the luxurious screen rattled, showing footage of him and John sitting across a table from the other royals, and him trying to conceal the fact that he was just pushing the food around his plate. Sherlock chuckled a bit at how ridiculous his actions looked and at the way John was smiling at him from his seat.

The rebel sat on his bed, not too careful not to wrinkle his royal attire too much and rested his head on one of the posters. The images on the screen showed him with John during their various visits to other lands. Settling on the video of the hunt with him being forced into an idiotic hat and John doing his best to try and conceal the amusement from his expression. _“…After Sherlock wore the now-iconic deerstalker for their forest meeting with the other royals, admirers from all around the kingdom have taken to send him boxes of them…”_ The voice continued.

Sherlock groaned loudly and let himself fall backwards in frustration. “Why does is always have to be the stupid hat?” He bemoaned and punched the bedding with fury.

“Because it suits you.” Irene commented from the corner of the room, the bracelets on her wrist rattling when she reached a hand to one of such items that was stuffed hidden behind some of his books in Chemistry and the rates of decay of magical creatures. The boy raised his head and glared at her.

_“…No one believed King John and his boy from the wrong end of the dome would last long, we assure you: no one is more surprised than us to know…”_ The voice said, as they showed the footage of John feeding him chocolate strawberries. Sherlock could remember it had been one of the times they —or at least he— had actually enjoyed the afternoon during the excruciating, long journey.

“Wanna bet?” He mumbled under his breath, the bitterness clear and present in his tone and words. He was tired of the questioning, specially since he already had enough of such doubts inside his Mind Palace to also withstand morons discussing them like they knew a damn thing about it. As he stared at the King’s golden ring around his finger, he suddenly remembered all the things he should be doing instead.

_“…He must be counting the days until Cotillion where he…”_ The voice from the television faded into the background as he deftly flipped the pages of his spell-book until he found the conjuring he needed. Irene eyed him disapprovingly from her seat, but Sherlock had no time to concern himself with such an unimportant detail as _opinions._ He silently recited the words as he opened a different book, reading it at break-neck speed and magically storing every piece of information inside his Palace.

“I know the great Sherlock Holmes’ secret to multitasking, and John is not going to like it one bit.” Irene said, as she approached the bed once more and crossed her arms. The defiance she displayed barely distracted the rebel, but she didn’t seem to be backing down. “I strongly believe the two of you have enough secrets already.”

“Yes, thank you for the input.” He answered, the fire in his eyes told her how much he appreciated the comment. 

The girl with the indigo hair huffed and snatched the spell-book from his slender hands anyway. “As your friend, I must tell you this book belongs in the museum,” She said. “Along with my mirror.” Sherlock sighed and narrowed his eyes at her, contemplating on how much deduction it would take to make her uncomfortable enough to back off; but knowing how shameless she was, and how much she already knew about him, it probably wouldn’t work as effectively as he wished. “No, don’t give me that look,” She commented at the furious pout already forming in his lips.“You know I’m right.”

“Don’t you ever get bored?” The silver gazed asked, once he had snatched back hisprecious book. “Don’t you just miss running wild and breaking all the rules?” He tried to hide the wistful tone in his voice, already tired of behaving so little like himself for the whole morning.

Irene regarded him, getting that strange look she had been giving him since they arrived at Auradon so many moon-cycles ago. “Why would I?” She queried, even if he couldn’t be sure whether it had been rhetorical or if she actually expected him togive an account on the multiple reasons it was a legitimate question. “Look at where we are, what more could you ask for? I’ve got everything I ever wanted here.” She explained, as she twirled the deerstalker on her finger. “Don’t you?”

The question caught the rebel off-guard, which was no small feat. He discreetly rubbed his suddenly sweaty palms over his violet bedding, as he searched for an answer. “I-” Just as he was about to respond there was a firm knock on the door, followed by a figure letting themselves into his chambers, only to stand and raise hisginger eyebrows in contemplation.

“Mycroft.” The girl said, smirking that cat-like grin and thankfully forgetting all about the interrogation that was left hanging in the air before his brother entered. 

“Ms. Adler,” He said, standing perfectly upright with the clean-crisp suit he favoured. The smile he wore was as rehearsed as the words and pleasentries falling out of his mouth. “May I have a moment with my brother?” He asked, and Irene nodded and made for the exit; but not before turning around and regarding him with a perfectly styled eyebrow arching, just before the door fell shut. 

Sherlock slouched on his seat, draping his legs up at the foot of the bed and letting out an exasperated groan that would put the mourning magical creatures of the forest to shame. Mycroft, for his part, didn’t look any different than usual. Being the King’s royal advisor for cycles had made him gain the confidence in his capabilities that he had lacked when it came to magic and villainy; even if Sherlock opined that the amount of lying and sneaking around that such a job required was not very dissimilar to what they had been taught to do. He concluded that perhaps the apple never fell _that_ far from the metaphorical tree after all.

“Go away,” He ordered, but he knew how futile his attempt was. The rebel knew Mycroft had the tendency to never be around when he could be useful, but he was incapable of leaving when you wanted him gone. 

Mycroft looked at the room with disgust, looking for a clear place to sit. At least Sherlock could draw a bit of satisfaction from knowing the only available space was very close to one of his most foul-smelling experiments; which the older brother would despise. “Your boyfriend tasked me to keep an eye on you.” He reminded him calmly, neither of them happy with such an arrangement.

“Yes, well,” The other answered, disinterest painted all over his face as he rolled over to rest on his belly and continue speed-reading the book, without sparing one glance at the ginger-haired man. “Just because he doesn’t trust me, doesn’t mean you actually have to keep following me around.” He replied.

“Oh, he trusts you.” Mycroft assured, “Against better judgement.” He said, finally taking a seat and resting his precious umbrella against the desk. The silver-gazed wished he could disagree with the statement. “He trusts you not to betray him again,” The older brother said while nonchalantly observing his tie, and Sherlock recognised the tactic without delay. “But at the end of the day, you are you, and you cannot blame him for worrying you’ll end up setting something on fire.”

“I’ve learnt my lesson.” Sherlock insisted, not even sure whether he meant it or not. These days it was difficult even for him to say. “I’ve changed my ways and I have reentered society as an upstanding citizen, see?” He sat up again, and gestured his surroundings as proof. He failed to know what more could his brother or anyone else could possibly ask of him in the subject. “Now, go away.” The rebel stood up and started frantically shifting papers on his desk.

“Sherlock,” His older brother sighed, with the tone he remembered he used to employ every time he thought Sherlock was acting like a petulant child —even when he used to be one. The curly-haired boy payed him no mind and continued his search, keen on retrieving that document from between the enormous pile of other files as if he had never heard him. “Sherlock!” Mycroft raised his voice, his breath coming considerably faster than before.

“Now what?” Sherlock turned around and waved his hands, frustrated. With fire in his eyes and a frown over his forehead. His brunette curls now standing wild for frustratedly tugging at them multiple times.

“You can’t continue like this.” Mycroft said, taking in the state in which he was. After all, he may not have inherited from their mother the magical affinity, but the intelligence was a trait that seemed to had passed on to her progeny without loosing any of its edge regardless.

“And what’s the alternative?” Sherlock snarled. “You told me to behave, so I am.” Apparently the fact that he was a man, —apart from all that ‘ _dreadful business with the wand’_ as his brother had put it— was enough for the kingdom to remain dubious on the whole affair. So now he was stuck in the grave he had dug. But he had no time for an identity crisis, or another back-and-forth argument with his brother —no matter how much it seemed to drive the other crazy— he had classes to pass and meetings to arrange. “Now get off my case. I have a council meeting in twenty minutes and I still haven’t figured out what I am supposed to be lying about now.” 

After a few more moments of heavy staring and silent battle, his brother gracefully rose and with carful fingers grabbed his umbrella. “Sherlock,” He said in acknowledgement and left the room.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Rays of sunshine were falling, covering all of the kingdom. The punishing heat even more brutal than predicted in the messed-up seasons they had in Auradon. The Isle had always been grey clouds with varying levels of bleakness. The students were walking to class under such annoying circumstances, all of them just eager to get out of the sun and into a nice cool classroom.

“Hey, Greg!” A couple of girls greeted from the side of their path, giggling and smiling prettily at one of them in particular. Sherlock rolled his eyes at the obvious display, they were girls number seven and eight that he had counted to do the same that morning. He hung back from the whole conversation and used that little moment of respite to think of some of the things he still had to do, and what would be the most efficient way to achieve them. Also, a bit of mischievous fantasising was never unwelcome.

“Hey, you!” Lestrade greeted them with a wining grin; making the girls giggle even louder, and all the other companions in their journey to laugh ecstatic. Greg adjusted his gloves and eyed them lewdly as he lead the whole party. The boy with the silver eyes had to repress the urge of returning the contents of his meagre breakfast at such idiocy.

Mary, —who was also parading around with them, bringing their usual _three,_ to an awkward _four_ — said; “Why do you torture them?” Quickly following in their wake, smirking and adjusting the heavy books she was carrying. “Just pick someone to take to cotillion already.” She suggested, the hair on her face being pulled back by a graceful, pale hand. 

“I told you I can choose you a partner,” Irene reminded him, for apparently the millionth time. She turned around to make sure Sherlock had not sneaked off somewhere to scape the tedium of the topic, then brought her attention back to where she could get some profit. The click of her very high heels providing a rhythm to their strolling.

“Nah, I’m going solo,” Greg replied, carelessly swinging the bag of books he carried over his shoulder. “That way, I can _‘dance’_ with all of them.” A roar of laughter followed that line, as yet more girls appeared to notice them passing by and made a show of greeting them. “Plus, I don’t fancy being charged off my pants.”

“Ah, smart!” Mary commented, pleasantly. The curly-haired boy was still unsure on his take on her character. She had been a lot more accepting of them since what had happened in John’s coronation, and frankly her dark humour often came as a grateful change from her boring, Auradon peers, —mainly prissy princes and princesses. But Sherlock couldn’t quite shake the feeling that there was something about her that he still didn’t quite know. And he hated not knowing.

“What about you, Mary?” Irene said, as she circled Greg’s shoulder with her bracelet-covered arm and gave a triumphant and icy smirk at all the morons that glared jealously at her, _‘If only they knew.’_ Sherlock thought. “I could fix you up.” The Woman continued, already raking her eyes over the other girl, and clearly deciding what sort of partner would suit her best.

“Thank you, but no, thank you.” The blonde was quick to reply. “The last girl you set up ended up with that pervert from the Enchanted Meadows.” The boy recalled that perfectly, it had been a rare source of amusement for him for hours.

“So?” Irene’s eyebrow arched in defiance. “She’s a pervert too!” She exclaimed, statement that was undenyingly spot on. Even Sherlock —who had no sense of decency whatsoever— had silently congratulated Irene on her choice with that one.

At the distance, he could see two figures approaching, and he rolled his eyes at the prospect of even more meaningless talk. Janine and Molly were waving excitedly at them, and Sherlock considered if it would be too obvious if he just spontaneously decided to turn around and flee.

He had wished to pass by unseen by Molly, but all hopes of that disappeared when the girl called his name. Her tone loud and merry. She carried a dusty blue planner on her hands. _Fuck._

“Yes?” He said, even if he was now sure he would risk the tall bushes behind them in his escape. It was most likely worth it.

“I hate to keep bothering you,” She said, as she anxiously fidgeted with the pen and smiled apologetically. “But the decorating committee needs more answers, and I know you must be very busy, but this will only take a bit and as much as I-” She babbled. Causing the boy to have flashbacks on that afternoon where she had talked for thirty seven minutes straight, with no prompting on his part, and him only managing to hear _‘Party. Party. Choose. Choose. Molly’s boring. Kill me.’_

“Molly: the point?” He reminded her, his tone much less than nice, and dripping with exasperation. 

Molly, however, didn’t seemed to notice much about his exasperation; At least not more than how he usually was, she just carried on with her big eyes and the soft brown hair that she went back into using in a high ponytail. “Right, sorry. So, as much as I hate to-” She stumbled through her words, grimacing when she apparently didn’t find one she liked.“Um, you know,”

“Pester me?” Sherlock offered, his silver gaze glinting in the morning sun, and his mouth curling up in bitter amusement. The knuckles in his fingers turned white as he clutched his books.

“Right,” The expression over her face fell, but a second later was replaced by determination. The rebel could read in her stance that she was probably very ashamed to keep bombarding him with information, but the clothes she wore told him she was not likely to give up on her task. Someone who would dare to use a jumper that hideous was probably more stubborn than she looked.

“I would like to,” He lied. “But I’m sort of obligated to attend class now.” That part was actually true, it had been one of his _‘punishments’_ after the whole wand incident. He made to turn away then, hoping she would drop it until she eventually managed to find him again later.

“I know, just-” The hand she placed in his arm stopped him in his tracks and made Sherlock consider smacking his own head with his heavy _‘Remedial Goodness 101’_ textbook until he passed out. “Nod if you like it.” Molly suggested, as everyone else had gone a few steps further and were clearly discussing attractive physical attributes, which was arguably less interesting conversation; but not for much.

“Entry banner, party favours, table centres,” She deftly turned the pages and showed him but a glimpse of what she was talking about in her haste. Sherlock didn’t mind, and nodded as he encountered ideas completely at odds with Molly’s usual lack of taste. After quite an amount of items, she paused. “And we still need to choose the napkin design.”

“I don’t care just-” Sherlock started, but was even unable to finish before the brunette had started ranting options again.

“I mean we can do swans,” She said, an excited tone underlying each suggestion.“Flowers, opera house, roses, crowns. I kind of love the opera house, but I mean we can do all-” The rebel’s head was saturated, on an all-consuming edge, completely overwhelmed by all this information coupled with the heavy load he already received by his usual deductions. At that moment, a powerful force surged through the boy, making him gasp as his silver eyes turned bright green. The event lasted for only a second, but as soon as he blinked it was gone, and he noticed Molly was looking at him in confusion.

“Opera house.” He deadpanned, his tone now eerie and hollow. The words coming out of his mouth much more decided than he would have anticipated. It made the girl open her lips, but unable to utter a single word. 

With Sherlock’s prompting gaze, Molly shook off the bewilderment and said. “Yeah?” She asked, and gave no time for him to answer before she was already eagerly assured, all prior thoughts and doubts forgotten. “You won’t regret it.”

At this, the others were approaching again, probably to figure out the expression over their faces. Irene frowned when she saw him, but the other three just appeared amused at his utter gloom. Janine placed an arm around Molly’s shoulders in camaraderie. Her big grin loaded with a wistful quality. “With that enthusiasm, I can hardly wait to see how you’ll be when your wedding comes around, Sherlock.” She said, as a collective halting silence descended upon the group.

“Excuse me?” Sherlock inquired. His gaze raking her expression for any sign of falsehood. “Wedding?” He clarified, the baby blue button-up shirt he was wearing suddenly feeling much more suffocating.

Irene opened her mouth, and her whole face looked delighted, and the curly-haired boy would have glared at her if he hadn’t had more pressing matters to clear up. Mary waved her hand, almost as if he were being _silly,_ “The Cotillion is sort of an engagement to get engaged.” She said, as she flattened her pink skirt with her palms.

“Oh, that’s _brilliant_!” Lestrade bursted out laughing, and the heat in Sherlock’s glare at that was unmatched. That didn’t make him stop though, if anything, his wrath seemed to be fuel for Lestrade to keep on and double over in hilarity.

“Everybody knows that…” This time, Mary’s tone was not as condescending; instead she clearly had caught on to the fact that he actually hadn’t known anything about that prior to this conversation. It appeared John and him had been communicating even less than he thought they had.

“Well, nobody told _me_ that particular information,” He snarled, his heart beating more rapidly. He was anxious to stop the stupid surprises from coming. “Is my entire life being decided without my cons-” He began. However, he was interrupted when he felt a presence behind him, placing a strong hand over his back.

“Sherlock!” John said. Sherlock’s words of rage turned to sand inside his mouth, as he recognised the alarmed expressions on the people in front of him. He turned around and encountered the king’s kind and genuine grin beaming back at him. “Hi, I-” The blonde said as he placed a quick kiss over his forehead. The other fussed with his curls, but was otherwise unreactive. The information that had just been dumped on him was keeping him inert, nailed in place by its severity. John adjusted the strap of his bag, arranging his official blazer; but his eyes not leaving his boyfriend.

“John,” Molly broke the moment, making both of them blink and snap back into action. “Quick moment?” She said, as she was already dragging the royal away from the group. 

“Uh,” John looked back at Sherlock with an apologetic expression on his face. “Alright.” He consented, but the rebel’s scowling face didn’t do much to appease him. The blonde pinched the bridge of his nose and mentally prepared himself for a massive sulk later. 

Shaking his head, and deciding to cross that bridge when it came, he leaned down to see what the brunette girl was showing him. “They’re almost finished with the surprise you set up for Sherlock.” She beamed proudly, and he couldn’t blame her. It was exactly what he had asked.“They just want you to approve it.” She said.

“Perfect.” Was his reply. Smiling at her and feeling himself get excited; he couldn’t wait for his boyfriend to see it. “Just make sure they change it to purple.” He added, pointing to something in the picture. The class bell rang, and he started walking away after thanking her for all her help in the event.

Just as he was about to reunite with the others, —who were now a great deal away,— Molly called out to him for one final detail to arrange. “John! Which shade?” She asked. To which he just grinned and yelled back: _“The richest!”_.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Heavy brown boots stomped down on the dirty floor, as everyone in their path hastily stepped aside to avoid them, —avoid mainly their owner. Still, there were a few brave boys and girls that dared smile enticingly at him as he passed by, despite the obviously bad idea it would be to get involved with the likes of him. However, he didn’t seem to be bothered much, he may have time and want for that later, but at the moment he had somewhere to be. 

The tall figure clad in a crimson mid-length coat moved easily across the dock market; nicking a few items here and there, and eliciting a few frustrated reactions when the lesser criminals realised it would be futile to try and get back what was stolen. The small street was packed with an array of a hundred and one different things; a chaos of colours and textures attacking everyone that walked by, yet the thief did not pay attention to any of it. He just scratched the ginger afternoon shadow on his jaw and adjusted the hat on his head as he stepped over the crates. 

He moved determinately through the various stands until the small, merchant alley spread out into a full open dock with a row of shops and houses to the left, and the hazy, translucent wall of the dome refracting the light on the right. At the end of said space, near the darkest part of the ocean, stood a shop, the structure of which had clearly seen better days, with planks of wood missing and the paint nearly scratched whole from its surface. 

The man with the heavy boots continued stomping towards it, pausing briefly at the entrance to steal a couple of fishes right from the line as a girl was drawing them out of the water. Smiling as he gathered his price and strode past the sign that read _‘You’ll take it how I make it’._

The inside of the shop was as pitiful as the outside, and all its dull clients were haphazardly gathered around various tables, apathetically staring at what passed as food on the island and not even daring to turn around. The fish-robber hastily deposited his sword into the holder next to the door and approached the bar. After shoving some unassuming tosser out of his way, he climbed the worktop and stylishly jumped to the other side. He smiled to Sebastian, who was shoving several chips into his mouth at once, and then turned the junk-television on to the only channel it showed —not that its owner would ever let them change it, regardless— and leaned on the wall.

At the telling sound coming from the screen, a girl appeared through the door for the kitchen, her blue-green gaze examining the tables with precision, then hastily narrowing to the focus of her attention. Her long hair cascading down her back in a bright teal wave that shone with the light streaming from the small TV. 

The ginger man stepped closer and arched an eyebrow. “How lovely to see you.” He commented.

“You are aware flattery will not work on me, Victor.” She responded, her sight never straying from the screen. The features on her face completely devoid of any expression; and anyone who didn’t know her would mistake such reaction with complete indifference, the man would not make that mistake.

“Oh, I know.” He said, ignoring the previous statement as he dropped the recently deceased fish over the counter, making a nasty squelching sound as they hit the surface. “I brought you a gift.” He rang the bell on the wall-opening signing for the cook as a shameless smirk appeared over his lips.

“More spine,” She answered. As if it were the most disgusting thing that he had ever done, but he knew she would find a use for them nevertheless, as she had with all the others. She reached and turned the volume of the telly up. King John and his companion Sherlock Holmes were being displayed on the screen, and that meant everything else in the world was inconsequential. 

Victor rang the bell once more, but was only regarded with silence once more. “Who do I have to kill to get some food in this place?” He snarled, tossing aside the offending object and smiling as he heard its chime rattling on the floor. “Where the hell is the cook?” He asked and slid Sebastian’s tray to himself, he munched on its contents as its owner glared from the other end of the bar.

“In a sack in the airing cupboard.” The girl said airily. 

Victor shrugged and set his feet over the counter; he settled back to watch the pastel-wearing individuals on the screen. “Poser.” He commented and laughed as chum was propelled towards the screen by one of the clients. He had every right to share the sentiment.

“Traitor!” Sebastian muttered to their left, just as several other projectiles were being thrown, now blocking almost the entirety of the image. Exclamations and insults given as freely as the nasty food.

The young woman turned around sharply and glared at them; silencing them completely with just one movement, just to turn back around and continue to watch the figures inside the light box, as she had been observing these two for moon-cycles. Victor, often times left in confusion as to how exactly she _‘recruited’_ —though enslaved would be a superior descriptor— almost everyone she met to her cause, watched in delight. The siren song had rained him in as well many cycles ago, but seeing as magic was an impossibility under the dome, he wondered how she seemed to do nothing but speak her way into the head of anyone she desired.

The ginger man stood up to swipe some food off from the screen with his finger and placed the gooey mess inside his mouth, grimacing as the terrible taste touched his tongue. “I would love to permanently wipe the smiles off their faces.” He said, as Sebastian puffed his chest out in delirious anticipation just as his father would have done a few decades prior. He too had no love for the kingdom and its inhabitants, specially after the very former King Ben, acclaimed hero, had murdered his father and stole his promised bride.

The girl with the teal hair turned to fully regard them for the first time that evening. Blinking as her eerie ocean gaze jumped from one to the other. Her ratty clothes hung over her thin figure as if they were made for someone much bigger than her. Making her look more like an orphan on the streets than a captain. The only remarkable thing she wore was the seashell pendant hanging from her neck. But that was no problem. She had told him she had no need for any sort of trapping or disguise as fashion often was, which he could believe after seeing how strongly she abhorred how —according to her,— people were nothing more than prisoners of their own meat. Victor was of the opinion a fake crown would seem utterly unnecessary. She was enough as it was.

“Not yet, I think.” She said. “But nearly.” Victor frowned, and scratched his orange beard at the mystery. Sebastian ran a hand through his brunette locks and shared the look of confusion with the other freebooter. “Sherlock has something to answer me first.” She continued, her obsession crawling its way into her bones once again. There had always been something not quite right with her. A slight glitch in the system. And even her own parents had preferred to alienate her than to try and make sense of her; his father’s love for chaos and violence played only a small role when it came to being able to channel his daughter into a useful villainous ally, the sea’s unpredictability and predilection for single-minded attack heightened by the bone-chilling coldness of her intellect. It was enough for him to eventually leave her to her fate as her mother had done several cycles prior. 

Victor scoffed at the mention of the name of the King’s new pet. Feeling hot anger rise from his gut all the way to his neck. “A reason why the snotty little _fairy_ snatched everything he wanted for himself and left us nothing?” He asked bitterly. “Turning his back on evil?”

“There is no such thing as evil.” The girl replied. “Good and evil are just fairytales.” She said, as her two companions stared at her with varying degrees of alarm and disagreement. “The instinct to attach an emotional significance to what is nothing more than survival strategy of the pack.” Her words came tumbling down her lips like a cascade, making Victor realise that she could no more stop them than she could stop thinking about the boy with silver-gaze and —turned— brunette curls. “It’s just, evolution.”

“We have his turf now.” Sebastian argued. “Who cares about them? Let the freak stay in _‘bore-don’_ where he belongs.” His nasal voice cut through the sound of the narrator on the news, a sharp contrast to the slight praise radiating out of the speakers.

Victor clasped the other’s jaw and forcefully turned his head so he could face the television. “See that?” He pointed. “ _That_ is his turf now! We shouldn’t be getting their leftovers!” He violently shucked the chip he was biting towards the tray and caused the rest of them to bounce away with the force.

The girl stared at him in curiosity, slightly tilting her head and letting a smile grow on her face. “Oh, interesting.” She said as if she had encountered the most peculiar creature. “You’ll get what you want.” She explained to her first mate after a few moments of scrutiny, the man all too eager to believe, no matter how vague she was.

“Any orders, captain?” Victor asked, putting the offer of action forward. He was already savouring making them pay for their disrespect.

“Nothing.” Was her answer, making him halt and snarl frustratedly.

“Nothing?” He questioned. However, she appeared unbothered, raising her eyebrows in indifference as she returned her attention to images of Sherlock frowning at the camera.

“The game will start soon.” She assured, her sight once more glued to the screen. “Our mutual friend taught me how to play.” That was music to Victor’s ears, if the purple-headed fae thought they — _he_ — could ever be a match against her, he had seen nothing yet.

“A game?” Sebastian chose the moment to speak up. “I feel like we’re in tot-school again.” He commented, a hint of mock in his tone. Everyone stopped and Victor stared at him in warning, but the other didn’t seem to heed the ginger arched eyebrow, instead marched on as he chuckled. “Are you also going to let him call you shri-” At that moment Victor grabbed him by the shoulders and began dragging him away; Seb just then realising his mistake.

The bright auburn-headed man shoved him out of the shop and halted any attempts from him to get back inside with his sword, making note to remind himself to later sort him out for his errors against the one in charge, so he wouldn’t forget exactly who that was. With one disgusted last look, he turned around and returned to the side of his mistress.

She appeared not to have noticed, but he knew there was not a thing that could get past her; no matter how distracted by King John and Sherlock Holmes sharing chocolate strawberries on the telly she seemed to be. “Victor, what’s my name?” She asked, as she sometimes did. 

The man took off his hat to held it to his chest in reverence as he uttered: “Eurus.” The name falling from his thin lips as sharp and rich as both a curse and a blessing.

“All hands on deck, then.” She smiled, “The East Wind is coming.” Eurus stated to the confused crowd, but Victor didn’t need an explanation to understand that they would make sure that leaving them there would be the primary thing those snotty brats would regret.

 

 


	3. Chapter 2: Bribery's Truest Form

[ ](https://ibb.co/kXtHzct)

 

 

 

 

 

 

> Bribery is the act of giving or receiving   
>  something of value in exchange for some kind  
>  of influence or action in return, that the recipient  
>  would otherwise not offer. To be done properly,  
>  the reward must equal or surpass the sacrifice.
> 
>  

 

 

“And what about her?” The nasal voice said as he pointed to a redhead in a picture. 

“Trust me,” Irene responded, while snatching the file away from prying eyes. “You don’t want to get into _that._ ” She said with pursed lips, and boy, was that true; she hadhad first hand experience, and said redhead was too high maintenance to ever be satisfied with the likes of Anderson. However eager he may be lately.

“And what about someone exotic?” He asked, his shoulders straight and chin up, clearly already picturing himself with a foreign beauty; for that to happen, Irene figured he would have to be born again and buy a better personality; but if she had learned anything from watching Sherlock —besides the deplorable attitude— was that people, specially clients, do not want to be insulted, no matter how completely true the statement. “The whole kingdom would be talking about us.” He said.

“Philip,” The girl approached him slowly, putting forth her best seductive smile. “When I look at you, all I can think of is: Regal.” She lied, flipping her indigo hair behind her ears, and not-so-subtly adjusting the sheer neckline of her dress. “With a _regular_ princess.” She concluded.

“Hey,” Greg called from a distance. The tiny figure across the field growing bigger as he got closer. “We start in five.” He said, as he shielded his eyes from the unforgiving glare of the sun. Irene knew she was the only one of them that relished in the change of climate since they had arrived there from the island. The unrelenting heat and sunny days gave her all the justification she needed to wear _exactly_ what she liked.

“I don’t know why the coach made him captain instead of me.” Anderson commented, after huffing a response to Lestrade. It was clear his new-found appreciation for her, and specially for Sherlock, hadn’t extended to Greg as well. Although the slender girl doubted that he would be very impressed for much longer if he knew the reason that Lestrade was named captain was because of Sherlock’s many helpful—and illegal— _‘observations’_ and his skillful —also illegal— _‘enhancements’_. “‘King Philip’ _”_ He contemplated. _“_ I like the sound of that.” The boy went on, as Irene fought not to roll her eyes at his obvious delusions. 

Anderson, oblivious to her opinions, continued on, taking a turn in his ludicrous daydreaming towards the depressive. “You know who would like it too?” He asked, the girl nodding in curiosity even if her eyes were already clouding over and her smile was a bit tight in the corners. “Sally.” He said.

“It’s time you forgot about that.” She answered, running a delicate finger over the cover of the file with potential candidates for his date to Cotillion. She was running out of days and ideas; and she will continue to be so if he didn’t get over the moping —and quite exasperating— attitude swiftly.

“Anderson, let’s go!” Lestrade yelled for the second time. The frown on his face more pronounced this time around. Just as he turned back to the fencing arena, Janine approached them and shook her head in disapproval of his temper.

Philip turned to look at the blue-haired girl apologetically, taking a tiny moment to smile at the newcomer. He bent down to grab his gear and helmet, and Irene stepped back to avoid being clumsily hit by any stray equipment. “I’m coming, yes.” Anderson grumbled, grimacing as he rummaged sulkily in his pocket for a wallet.

The sum of money he placed in her hand was very large, and the indigo-haired girl felt the weight of it like a victory. Hastily placing it inside her purse while Janine watched with a tilted head. Irene shrugged lively and winked at her, unconcerned about Anderson probably missing the exchange happening completely.

“And Anderson?” She called after him, once he had already started walking toward practice. “I know what you like, and you won’t be disappointed.” The grin over her face reflecting how confident she was of said abilities. She wasn’t called _‘The Woman’_ back in The Isle for nothing. “She’ll be blind with jealousy.”

“Thank you.” He said, gratitude painted on his expression at her deciphering exactly why he _needed_ that date. Ignoring —as most of the kingdom— that their newly-gained status as _‘miracle workers’_ was not exactly as clean and true as they all thought; but nobody had to know about that, as long as what they did kept people satisfied.

“A pleasure doing business with you.” She said; her blood-red lips smirked up and she turned away from sight of the fencing team.

“Somebody is obviously having trouble dealing with his breakup.” Janine commented form beside her, her easy-going mood permeating the whole field. “I thought you weren’t charging for matchmaking.” She said, but no judgement came with her words, just honest curiosity.

“My services are free.” The girl with the indigo hair confirmed, “However, research takes up time, and information has a value.” The explanation all of her clients seemed to eat up. It was easy when you were promising a romantic relationship, —or sometimes even just a one-off— in exchange. “So I’ve added a confidentiality fee.” That way people thought it completely rational to spend hundreds on what was basically just pairing similar character traits and tastes in sex.

“So, you charge for keeping people’s secrets?” Janine caught on immediately, a reason why even Sherlock seemed to tolerate her more than most of Auradon’s inhabitants. —except for John, of course; that was just another level of _tolerance._

“As insurance.” Irene said, as the brunette grinned in amusement and looped her arm around her elbow. “I’m thinking in the next three cycles, I’ll be able to buy myself a castle.” She continued. Her eyes sparkling with mischief as they turned to leave. “No wonder people work!” She exclaimed.

 

 

* * *

 

 

“Alright, boys. Let’s line it up!” Greg’s booming voice resonated across the arena. A score of royal blue and yellow students scrambled to obey the order of the team captain. With protective helmets being pushed on and weapons already in hand, they lined up.

“Dimmock, you’re with me.” Lestrade continued, as the two rows of players were already awaiting further instructions. He placed himself sideways from his opponent and released a deep breath.

“Assemble!” He yelled as they pointed their glinting swords up. “Salute,” His sight danced around the whole training area, making sure everyone was doing as they were told —to the best of their failing abilities— and also searching for a familiar face that often came to watch fragments of the practice. “En garde!” Everyone crouched down and got ready; Greg _lived_ for the anticipation of this moment. 

The moment he gave the sign, the place exploded with action; bodies jumping and somewhat deftly dodging attack. Swords being thrusted forward and clanging loudly over the sound of movement. Lestrade leaped, and turned, and slid, making sure not to be hit one single time. 

“Keep your centre!” The rebel ordered, as Dimmock almost lost his balance avoiding a double-coming attack from his teammates. All, in all, the lads were doing a decent job of it, and if Lestrade was persistent, perhaps he would be able to whip them into shape in time for the tournament; provided they could actually qualify; they had been slacking terribly in training now that John was almost always absent from practices.

With that in mind, he didn’t notice the new figure, with helmet already on, charging at him unexpectedly; only managing to step back and huff when he heard someone exclaim. “Whoa!” 

The stranger’s movements were brutal, just enough to give Greg a fighting chance. He met the attempts one by one, while reminding Dimmock to _‘keep his eyes on his opponent and stop looking at him, damn it!’._ He wiped the sweat off his forehead and stepped forward, the other not giving him a tiny inch to breathe.

Once all his other teammates had been struck, and therefore banished from the round, all that remained were him and the stranger who relentlessly fought him with an incredible amount of skill. 

“Get him, Greg!” One of his friends yelled, as he jumped to the other side and above the stepping boxes. His claves were on fire and his arms started resenting the heavy weight of the sword, but he wasn’t about to give up. “Finish him!” He heard from the crowd.

The boy avoided an attempt to his arm, while graciously turning left and almost colliding with the other body. He took the opportunity to make the stranger loose balance for a few seconds and achieved slacking the deadly grip on the dark-skinned hand holding the weapon. Once unarmed, it was not difficult to win, even if the stranger gave a few last attempts to regain control.

Both of them acknowledged the victory, and the stranger tugged off the helmet over their head. Springy black curls escaped the confinement and Sally Donovan grinned at his opponent in satisfaction. “Sally!” Greg commented, with wide eyes but a pleased expression painted over his face. “Not bad.” He said, as a few of the other teammates clapped their hands in appreciation.

“You should put me on the force.” She said, her thick lips smirked up at him, as she stepped forward.

Lestrade shrugged one shoulder, but nodded in agreement, just before a nasal voice broke the unspoken conversation. “But- but-” Anderson complained, seething with rage at feeling invaded by the last person he probably wanted to see at the moment. “You can’t!” He yelled, but Greg just frowned and stared at him, refusing to be ordered by a pathetic dork like Philip Anderson. Sally sighed in rage, her eyes squinting and her first curled up inwards. 

“We’ll be the laughing stock of the league!” Anderson said, and Greg could see all the others were approaching but not exactly interacting, probably just waiting to know their captain’s opinion on the matter before misstepping with the one who was in charge of their athletic future. 

“So?” Lestrade asked, not really seeing the point of why someone as good as Donovan should be left out just because of something as inconsequential as gender. Sally set her helmet down and looked about ready to launch at Anderson, but refrained back and awaited for Philip’s explanation.

“The rulebook says ‘a team will be comprised of a captain and eight _men.’_ ” He said, puffing out his chest as he showed off he had clearly read —and memorised at least part of— the rule book. He retrieved one from his bag and was quick to show it as proof of his argument. Lestrade grimaced with the rest of the team as he found that Anderson was —regrettably— absolutely right.

“But you’re down a man since John has to do king stuff.” Sally countered, her knuckles turning white with her fierce grip on her helmet. 

“Exactly, down a _man_.” Philip snarled smugly. Crossing his arms and his satisfied gaze never leaving the girl’s face. Sally turned to look at Greg in hope for support, but Lestrade was not able to do anything; no matter how stupid it was. 

“I’m sorry. The coach trusts me,” He explained, entirely raging that he had to do this in order to keep his position. Useless stupid rules that served no propose. That’s why life in The Isle had been so much easier, everyone was free to do whatever the hell they liked and people just had to learn to fend for themselves. This arbitrary moral system was beginning to piss him off. “I’m not gonna stay captain if I just ignore the rulebook.” He said, although his expression clearly showed something different.

“If my mother thought that way, we would be ruled by a Voodoo witch.” Sally responded, savagely going for the jugular. Anderson turned around outraged, his big, stupid mouth opened as if disbelieving what she had just stated; a mocking grin appearing across his face. Suddenly on Lestrade’s side after complaining about his position in the team for weeks. The rebel huffed and stepped away, as Philip waved the rulebook to Sally’s retreating back and yelled _‘Rulebook’_ again and again.

The brunette girl stopped and turned back around, her eyes fire bottled up. “And by the way,” She said. “This is exactly why we broke up, Anderson.” With that, Donovan left the arena and walked away.

Lestrade outright laughed at Anderson’s face, reveling in someone actually putting the royal in his place publicly. “Alright,” He said. “Practice’s over. Let’s go.” The other teammates grabbed their equipment, and arranged their blunt swords on their designated place. Anderson’s quick, embarrassed escape was the first good thing to happen in Greg’s day, so far. Founding a girl sitting on the side benches, excitedly talking over the phone, was the second.

“Molly, hey.” He approached her. A big grin over his features. “What’s up?”

“Oh, hey.” She responded amicably, but held one finger to halt any further attempts at conversation. “But-” She said to the person at the other end of the line. “They _have_ to be the right shade of blue, or he will _kill_ me.” Her tone was between worried and completely tired out. The argument clearly still going, even if she parted the phone from her ear and explained to Greg. “We’re going with the blue and gold banners for cotillion, but they are not the _royal_ shade of blue, and Sherlock has completely abandoned me.” She said, her brunette ponytail swinging when she anxiously moved her head as she talked.

“That sucks.” Lestrade commented half-heartedly; not really feeling up to trying to figure out why a shade darker would even matter. “Speaking of Cotillion-” He continued, as she frustratedly pocketed her mobile when the other person had so clearly ended the call.

“Cotillion. Is all everyone talks about.” She moaned, her big round eyes staring at the floor as she fidgeted the hem of her blue jumper. “No wonder he ran,” She commented, and the boy was unsure in whether she was still talking to him and expecting an answer. “It’s like they’ve never been to one before.” Molly said.

The eyebrows on his forehead scrunched up, as Lestrade stood there awkwardly. “I haven’t actually.” He admitted, even if it should not come as any surprise that a person who had spent most of his life banished from the kingdom had never attended any royal event, save for the fateful coronation that brought them there in the first place.

“Oh, I’m so sorry. I didn’t think,” She was quick to apologise, placing a clumsy hand over his arm in support. “I always end up serving punch with my Granny anyway.”Molly said, smiling self-depricatingly. “This cycle I decided to help out in the decorating committee because my mum-”

“Maybe you should just-” Greg cut her off, not wanting the girl to go on into the stratosphere with explanations. He didn’t need to know the details, he just wanted to see if he could actually get her to agree to come to Cotillion as his date, and maybe for a bit of fun afterwards.

“Skip the whole thing?” Molly said, unknowingly crashing all his plans. The expression on her face growing more agitated by the second. “I can’t, my family is counting on me,” Was her motive. “Specially my Gran, after last time-” She trailed off, none of them really knowing how to breach the subject of them —mainly Sherlock— manipulating her and resulting in her trying to steal the wand for herself. It was a grey area, to say the least. “You know…”

“Yes,” Lestrade responded, ready to feel a tiny bit apologetic if that meant she would actually hear him for once. “Listen,” He started, but was cut off by a shrill ringtone coming from Molly’s pocket.

“It’s the caterers,” She commented, as she smiled apologetically at him; already standing up and gathering the pile of books she was hauling around school lately. “I have to go.” She said, as she rushed away and waved; not even looking at him anymore. “Bye, good practice!”

Greg could do nothing but stand there stupidly for a few moments before grabbing his fencing gear and making a beeline straight to where he knew Sherlock would be. Clearly, he would need a bit of special help for this.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The kingdom slept, as it was wont to do when John needed something with which to distract himself. It wasn’t that the view was anything but beautiful, the lights of the realm twinkling and painting the bottom half of the scenery in a vast array of diverse colours against the infinite darkness sprinkled by bright dust. It wasn’t a matter of having nothing else to do but to sit there and worry himself silly about what was happening either; in fact, he was crammed by work, and the pile of official documents he was expected to read, and revise, and sign was threatening to topple over by its sheer height.

No. John needed something else to calm his anxious mind. He was so overwhelmed by every decision he had to make that the words were starting to blur together in front of his eyes. His blonde hair was up in strands for running his fingers through it so many times, and the sleeves of his pale yellow shirt were rolled over his forearms. His blazer long forgotten over the back of a chair. How was he expected to be able to decide the future of several villages in the kingdom when he didn’t even have time to read the entire file?

To his left, Mycroft was also perusing through a thick folder of papers; sitting completely straight in his three-piece-suit with not a wrinkle in sight. He passed the pages with a lot more aplomb and tranquility than the King thought possible in that situation. The blonde sighed and let out a soft laugh at yet another proof that his friend was clearly better at political matters than he was.

Giving up on trying to make sense of the sentences anymore after more than four hours of doing so, the king stood up and paced around the room. “Mike,” The used pet name not really going away now that he knew his real name. For John, Mycroft Holmes would always be Mike, the best friend he had found roaming the streets of the market alone when they were much younger. “Can I ask you something?” He said to fill the silence, and because the ginger was the only person who could possibly give him the answers he sought.

The other kept on passing pages, probably already knowing what he was going to ask, but replied nonetheless. “I’m obligated to answer each and every question you put forward, my king.” He commented. The auburn of his perfectly-combed hair making him seem even more haughty.

“Ha-ha!” John said sarcastically, as he glared at the older man with no real fire behind the gaze. “It’s just,” He sighed, and dropped himself down carelessly on the armchair. “Was it hard?” The blonde was aware of the unfortunate timing of his question, but it wasn’t enough to deter him from his inquiry. “Coming here all alone after living all your life on the Isle?”

Mycroft stared at him in contemplation, clearly reading every one of his intentions and apprehensions all over his figure; Perhaps the way in which he had folded his shirt sleeves was giving him away. After a life-time, John had become accustomed to being completely flayed whenever the Holmes’ gaze was directed at him, specially now that he had seen it coming from two different sources. 

Mycroft gracefully closed the file he was analysing and regarded his question. “In a way it was,” He said, his eyes bringing forth the mistiness of painful memories.“Thankfully, I was not alone for long.” He explained, to which John smiled. The ginger-haired man had been almost God-sent in his life, and he couldn’t imagine how it must have felt to someone who had been so utterly alone before. 

“It also didn’t hurt the fact that I never quite found my place there,” He said. “But Sherlock, he was always so _in tune_ with the customs,” The older man commented, fact that nobody in the whole kingdom could refute. “I never had such affinity; I learned enough to be convenient —our mother didn’t really posses the habit of hoarding that which had no use to her, despite her likeness to draconian beasts,” He added, shifting papers around mindlessly. “But, ultimately, we’re all just half-siblings.” His expression was apparently aloof, speaking of his childhood traumas as if he were reciting the capitals of the realms. John smirked, recognising the truth behind the facade, specially when his little brother was mentioned.

“Do you ever miss it?” The king asked, as he stood up and went to stand in front of the window once again, the scenery now painting a clear picture of everything that was wrong in their lives. The big dome shadowing almost the entirety of the island, and making it an anomaly so stark that he knew most people would be pleased if it were to suddenly just disappear. 

“I do regret some things,” Mycroft said from behind him, his slender fingers adjusting the silk tie he wore. “But I believe coming here was the best thing that could have happened to me.” The statement seemed loaded with so much meaning that the blonde was hesitant to keep prodding. For most of their lives they had been unable to talk about this issue. John due to his ignorance about his friend’s true identity, and his advisor, for fear that the revelation would erase any camaraderie and trust they had built over the cycles, ending with a probable time spent in jail if the luck gods were in his favour. The other felt he could not really blame him for thinking that way; they _had_ decapitated his mother, after all.

John realised how really unequipped he was to be deciding things about which he knew nothing. If it had been him, he doubted he would have lasted a single day alone in a foreign place, and what about deciding what to do with people that had clearly done something wrong? When was enough _‘enough’_? How could he pretend to know what was best for all of them?

“You would have been fine.” Mycroft broke through his pondering. Smiling at the confusion portrayed over the blonde’s face. “You were wondering how you would have fared were the roles had been reversed.” The ginger explained, and John knew better than to ask how in the hell did the other figure it out so quickly. He shrugged and placed his hands inside the pockets of his trousers, attempting to make it pass as a way to shield them from the cold air of the window. He was certain that Mycroft was not fooled by it. “You’re an honest man, John.” He reassured. “Men like that are hard to find. Anywhere.” He spoke as if he had thought about the subject before, and that made the blonde feel just the tiny bit more at ease. “And people seem drawn to individuals within that category. You would have been fine.” Mycroft concluded, his gaze fixed on the world passing the rolling meadows of vibrant green grass, now dulled by the moonlight. His expression so similar to that of his younger sibling that it had the king smiling at the resemblance. 

“And Sherlock?” He asked curiously. His big blue eyes looking up at him in hopes of wisdom, as if the other were more _his_ brother than he ever was Sherlock’s. 

“My brother is a category of his own, I’m afraid.” The ginger responded, a lighter tone weaved through the words, amused by the undeniable truth he was verbalising.

“You mean you don’t know.” John explained for him. Raising his eyebrows and daring the other to disagree.

“I mean it would be foolish of anyone, including me, to pretend they do.” He declared, only to have John letting out a hollow sigh in honest agreement. _Who the hell knew about Sherlock Holmes?_

With the conversation having satiated its need for escape from their chests, Mycroft turned around. “Do you mind if I retire with these for the night?” He asked, gesturing to the thick pile of folders he had picked up from John’s mess of a desk; once again the dutiful advisor. 

“Oh, no.” John smiled and replied distractedly, his sight still trained on the distant shadow. “Rest, I’ll hang back for a while.” He said, as he heard the other’s steady steps of leather shoes walking away from him. Only to stop before they reached the door and disappeared into the night.

“And John?” Their owner said. Waiting until the blonde boy ripped his gaze away from the source of his despair and looked at him. “Sherlock is not alone either.” He stated, just before he stepped through the entrance and left the King alone once more. 

 

 

* * *

 

 

Perhaps school hours wasn't the best moment to be fooling around, but given how tightly bound his schedule was these days, he really doubted he would be granted many other moments to be foolish in the near future. The many students of Auradon Prep strolled through the bright blue-painted locker hall right next to a rail that saw over a large food area. John rushed along the corridor, eager to arrive to his set destination; he had something he wanted to do, and this tiny respite from his responsibilities was the perfect opportunity to achieve it. 

His sight zeroed in on a figure, aggressively shoving things inside his _brighter-than-the-rest_ locker —it had recently been painted over since the last act of “expression” from its owner left its mark. Once the new king spotted him, his grin grew wider as he ruffled his hair and hiked up his bag to stalk as slowly and quietly as he was able. The soles of his shoes barely making any noise as he slowly approached the curly-haired boy with his back to him. The sight of those curls —be it brunette or violet— always found a way to paint a foolish smile over his face. 

Just as he was planning to stop and ready himself to surprise his boyfriend, said boy spoke with that smooth and sure voice he seemed to conjure up right from the deepest dwellings of John’s dreams. “Hello, John.” He said, not even needing to turn around or look his way to know he was there; this would be the forth time he caught the blonde before he could even get close enough to actually startle him. 

John frowned and cursed under his breath, as Sherlock finally turned to smirk at him.“How can you-?” The blonde asked, and the arched eyebrow he received taunted him with its curved cheekiness. “Right.” The blonde resigned himself and forwent questioning it; it would certainly take a lot more to actually surprise him. “I’ll get you one day.” He promised nonetheless.

“Mmm. Doubt it.” The brunette commented; which made the king glare at his profile as the other boy continued on with his task undisturbed. 

Due to the futility of insisting, John decided to let the matter go for the moment, “I’ve got a surprise for you.” He said, as he leaned with his arm on the door of said locker; and smiled easily at the other.

“Another one?” Sherlock then turned to asses him. That charming scrunch of his nose present in his expression when he did. “What’s the point? You know I can deduce-”

“Shut up,” John stopped him; silencing him before the protests could taint the moment, perhaps he had been going out of his way to find things to gift his boyfriend —mainly small trinkets or bizarre samples of unnamable things he had found— but he felt he was entitled to do so considering the circumstances. “I know you didn’t have a lot growing up,” He explained. 

“We managed.” Sherlock waved a hand and his eyes shifted away from their scrutiny, wandering anywhere but the other’s face.

“Just let me spoil you.” The king concluded, on that voice which left little room for argument. He knew the effect it had and took it out for a spin on occasion; it had proven immensely handy, specially now that he was reigning monarch _and_ boyfriend to the most stubborn man in the kingdom.

“That might be inadvisable.” Sherlock answered a hint of smile curving upwards as he finally finished stuffing all his belongings in the metal box. 

John chuckled at the odd pictures stamped over the inside panels —mostly bees and things that looked very dead— and also chose to ignore all the contraband lab equipment he could see from where he was perched up, practically hanging charmingly from the door. “I thought you donated that.” He said when he spotted the spell book amidst the other books.

The curly-haired boy swiftly turned around, his face unreadable for a second, before he grinned and slammed shut his locker door. “Is that still in there?” He dismissed.

The royal frowned, feeling a shallow wave of suspicion course through his veins, but it was gone before he could put it to light. “Anyway,” He continued, only then realising almost the entirety of the other students had vanished already. “Wait. Don’t you have class?” He asked.

“It can wait,” Sherlock smiled. “Now, about that surprise-” He started walking towards John’s locker, where the blonde knew he had already deduced his gift was hidden.

The king, however, was not backing down easily. “Mr. Dimmock already hates you, if you arrive late to his class…”

“Well, it’s hardly my fault his gambling addiction is so obvious.” The other grumbled, and as John laughed, he found it difficult to keep trying to pretend Sherlock wasn’t going to have his way about this, as with almost everything else.

“Fine, you maniac.” He relented, grabbing the soft green of Sherlock’s jumper and practically reined in the boy already striding away. “Come here, I’ll make it quick.”

Once they managed to get to his locker he took out a hard, plastic case, and could tell by the expression on the younger boy’s face that he already knew what the surprise was. Not that said fact made it any easier for John to read anything other than astonishment from him.

He opened the lid and carefully lifted the gift to present it. A beautiful, smooth, shinny surface reflected both their faces as they peered down at it from above.

“Oh.” Was all Sherlock said, but he reached out his fingers to run over it as if in reverence. “How did you-?” He started, but was unable to focus on anything more than the perfect black violin now clutched in both his hands.

“I noticed you staring at them while we were touring the Moonbeam Marshes and I figured things like these don’t exist on The Isle.” John explained, fidgeting and seemingly unsure on whether to wring his hands in front of him or stuff them inside his pockets. “You like it?” He asked, as silver eyes looked up to meet deep blue.

“John, this is…” With shortness of breath, Sherlock eloquently commented. His eyes shimmering in the light being reflected from the sun illuminating the hall. In a spontaneous flight of fancy, the younger boy reached out and embraced John in gratitude. It was very rare for him to initiate any type of affectionate or physical gesture, so the king basked in it for a few moments.

“Don’t thank me,” He said, once they had both separated, Sherlock’s sight still glued to his present. “Besides, you’re taking me on a picnic later,” John reminded him. “ _Nothing_ can compare to your baked goods.” He added, his expression already wistful in anticipation. “So we’re _good._ ” 

The curly-haired scrunched up his nose and made a gagging sound at the attempted joke. “That’s terrible.” He said, chuckles laced around the words as the other chocked back a hysterical laugh in slight embarrassment. 

“Yeah, it got away from me a bit.” He admitted, but grinned at his boyfriend’s good temper for the morning nonetheless; it was so rare lately that Sherlock’s mood was anything but fluctuating between stressed and annoyed that he cherished every one of these moments, when they could really laugh together.

“And that’s Thursday.” Sherlock commented, breaking him out of his pondering. John turned with a questioning frown at his boyfriend’s dismissal.

“It _is_ Thursday.” He said, only to be met with a blank stare and confused grimace. Both of which were quite rare to see on his boyfriend’s face separately, let alone at the same time.

“No, it’s not.” The curly-haired boy assured, staring at him as if he had lost the last of his mind. The two of them standing still on the corridor, unaware —or uncaring— of the completely empty hallway around them. The deafening sound of total silence making Sherlock’s inaccuracy bounce off the locker doors like images reflected off a mirror.

“Yes, it _is_.” John repeated, as he slowly approached the other. “Sherlock, you _do_ know-?” It wouldn’t even have to be a big deal, but Sherlock never missed things like that, and the change was making John anxious. 

He fidgeted in place as Sherlock seemed to absorb the information of his error and let his hard-drive crash for a few seconds. Once he appeared to have rebooted, he stood straighter and said, “Of course I do, don’t be an idiot.” The jab was well-aimed, but it fell completely flat.

“Because if you don’t have it, it’s fine-” John began appeasing. Not wanting to add onto the million things that were already hovering above their heads about their responsibilities. 

“Don’t be ridiculous, I have it,” Sherlock assured, waving his hands and squinting his silver eyes in boredom. “Just a few finishing touches and I’m all yours,” He added, already retreating to the opposite side of the hall. “In fact, I should get to it right now.”

“But what about class?” John said, a bit whiplashed from the abrupt turn of direction the conversation had taken. Sherlock swaying gracefully away before he could even grab him.

“I’m a genius,” The curly haired turned around and commented, a mischievous smirk painted over his face with glinting speckles on his opal eyes. “I can do both.” He stated.

“At the same time?” He questioned, baffled but _oh-so-terribly_ amused at his boyfriend’s mercurial attitudes. “Sherlock!” John called after him, trying to keep his laughter away from his tone in order to avoid looking like a _complete_ idiot in the middle of the school with the other already gone; sure that Sherlock Holmes would age him long before any sort of duty or crown got the chance.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The room smelled like rotten eggs.

Normally, it wouldn’t exactly mean a thing to anybody —except perhaps that the place was in dire need of cleaning supplies— but the distinct scent of decaying magic was something very hard for a body to comprehend. Sherlock knew what it was and how it was supposed to smell, but now that he was standing there, experiencing it on the flesh, it was hard not to gag at the deep stench. He figured if such a place really existed, _this_ is what hell would smell like.

The padded walls gave the circular space an even more disturbing look. However, nothing compared to the shiver Sherlock felt running up his spine when silver eyes caught sight of a hunched figure chained to the far side of the wall. An extremely _familiar_ figure.

 

 

 


	4. Chapter 3: To Summon A Trespasser

[ ](https://ibb.co/NsLxnCB)

 

 

 

 

> Trespassing is the crime of someone entering a place  
>  or community where no invitation was given.  
>  To execute properly, you must firstly make  
>  sure to gain access to wherever you want, and be  
>  certain that no one will ever know you were there.
> 
>  

 

 

When Sherlock approached, the hunched figure didn’t react in the slightly. For what he could see, the only faint movement that could be perceived was a shallow expanding of his chest each time he breathed as he was suspended on a never ending chasm. The curly-haired boy tentatively reached a hand to shake him, but as soon as he did, the body was jostled and the head fell back to lean on the wall.

Sherlock took off his hand as if it had been burned; as he fought to erase the terrified expression he knew would be painted on his face as the image. He had read about this in multiple books as he grew up, and the sheer terror the mental image had given the little infant had been enough to make him promise to himself that he would do whatever there was in his power to avoid ending up that way. But nothing could have prepared him for reality. Jim didn’t only appeared as if he were sleeping, —as the books had suggested— he didn’t even seem dead.   
  
He looked _empty._

His deep brown eyes were open, but no sign of sight was present. No proof that he experienced anything happening around him in any way; and Sherlock had done that to him. The rebel’s heart pounded inside his own chest as he took a step back, and attempted to gather his courage to try what he came here with the intention of doing.

He sat on the floor, reaching his two shaking hands forwards. The brunette sighed and closed his eyes; and pretended to ignore the image of the carcass of a person ingrained inside his mind; and the real reason why he had to do this, and how stupid he felt doing it. He ignored everything and let himself drift. He twirled the words over in his mind, until the intention started to define and make itself clearer. As the spell ate away at his mind, a surge of a picture became apparent; and before he knew it, he had left the stinky torture and was sitting crosslegged on the smooth floor of a different room. Around him, there were no more padded paneling, no crazy asylum of horrors, but the clichéd villainous decoration of quite a familiar office.

“You escaped!” The figure in front of him commented. The tone he carried as smooth and tailor-made as the impeccable suit he was wearing. James Moriarty —the _real_ James Moriarty— grinned at him; as if delighted by encountering him inside his own head, excited by the turn of events. 

“Hello, Moriarty.” Sherlock acknowledged; he stood up and placed his shaking hands inside the pockets of the coat that he was now wearing. He failed to know whether what he was doing was a good idea or a grave mistake, but he had run out of other options.

“The saviour of Auradon,” Jim opened his arms with flare, his tone dripping with mockery. “I can’t believe it,” He said, as he placed his hands on his cheeks in faux emotion, and his eyes twinkled with the real tempest he harboured inside. “Little old me getting a visit from the prodigy!”

The rebel couldn’t quite believe it either, but a point of speaking with the Consulting Villain was to keep cards close to one’s chest, since Jim always appeared to have a few aces up his sleeve already. “Oh, yes. The obligatory hero joke.” Sherlock said with a bored tone he had perfected over the cycles. “How original.” He sighed. “You’ll forgive me if I don’t laugh, I’m sort of in a hurry.” 

Annoying as it was, at least the pout in the other’s face told the curly-haired boy that he was being listened. “Then how can I service you?” James asked as he cocked his head and smiled.

Sherlock swallowed almost audibly, and replied: “What makes you think I would need anything from you ever again?” It was a good question, one to which even _he_ seemed to have trouble finding the answer. The shrug that accompanied it appeared weak at masking said fact.

“Oh, you know how this works,” The other chatted, beginning his characteristic pacing with the —also typical— shiny new dress shoes he sported. “Apparently.” He added. “You allowed me to enter your mind for this, so it _must_ be important.” 

“I can manage on my own.” The curly-haired boy said, with high eyebrows and pursed lips. His gaze deliberately wondering lazily over the room.

Moriarty laughed at the display, making the other a bit startled at how easily he was able to read him, he supposed being among naive, Auradon citizens for so long had lowered his standards. “That’s not true,” The villain shook his head as if to drive the point home. “You know that’s not true.” His sight came to rest unrelentingly at the other’s expression. “So what do you want, Sherlock?” He asked.

There was no point in denying it, or pretending it wasn’t exactly accurate. “I’m not coming back.” The silver-eyed boy responded. The sentence dropping like a bomb inside his ears. A true finality of thoughts when they are voiced out loud.

“So you’ve come to say goodbye?” Jim asked, a hint of breathlessness in his tone. “I’m touched!” He placed a hand to his chest and grinned.

The rebel’s slender fingers tapped a chaotic rhythm on his leg as the temperature in the room shrank back into just above freezing. Physics were really messed up inside there. “You sent _me_ to get the wand for you,” He said, completely disregarding any previous remark. “To execute your evil plan.”

“I did.” Moriarty agreed. And if the curly-haired never got to listen to another person speak to him as if he were a nervous child that had finally learnt his multiplication tables ever again, it would be too soon.

“Why?” He demanded, his fists curling closed as he waited. He was trying really hard to keep his emotions shuttered inside. His surface bubbling up with unexpressed emotion.

The condescending smile Jim gave him was the same that he had been giving Sherlock for most of his life, the one that made him feel as if he had shrunk two sizes, “Little _‘locky’_ doesn’t even know, does he?” He said.

“Know what?” Sherlock asked, stepping forward with scrunched up nose, frowning eyebrows and voice a tad more faint that he would like it to be. 

Moriarty kept talking over him, almost as if in internal monologue. “But to be quite real, you’ve always been a bit slow-”

“Doesn’t know what, Jim?” Sherlock snarled, shaking the villain by the shoulders, desperation breaking through the cracks of his composure. 

James laughed delighted at that, a lively giggle as he witnessed the other’s reaction. Once the other’s jostling lost its first energy, James beamed and stated to the silence left behind: _“What he is.”_

Sherlock’s frustrated expression crumbled in an instant, his skin paling at the face of such truth. He released Jim forcefully, attempting to put as much space as possible between him and his slithering words. Moriarty arched an eyebrow, the amusement was painted all over his face. The rebel took care of schooling his expression quickly, replacing surprise with boredom and disinterest. “And you do, I’m sure.” He guessed, as the shock of the previous statement wore down and his very unhealthy dose of scepticism came back into the fold.

James stroke a finger over his own grinning lips. “Daddy _always_ knows.” He replied. Knowing fully well how Sherlock hated that word.

“Well?” The boy prompted as he ran his hands through his long purple curls.

“Oh no,” The other replied. “I mean, I _could_ tell you.” The criminal glanced nonchalantly as his tie, admiring the way the fictional light landed on it and refracteda halo of hues. Acting as if he didn’t care either way. “But I don’t think I’m going to.”He assured. “Why would I do that if I can watch you squirm like a worm on a hook?” He asked with a grin.

“Not from inside here, you can’t.” Sherlock deadpanned.

That appeared to send Jim into hilarity, and the silver-gazed felt his teeth grind at the reaction he got. “Perhaps.” Moriarty conceded. “But the knowledge, Sherlock.”He commented, sighing as if the mere thought physically gratified him. “It would _pleasure_ me.” He said.

The younger boy stepped away, realising now how futile his attempts had been. “Clearly, this has been a waste of time-” He started.

“You came here to remind yourself of who you are.” The other broke him off before he could retreat. Stating what he must have recollected from the glimpse at Sherlock’s mind he was granted when the silver-gazed boy had asked for admittance in his. “The _real_ question, my dear,” He continued. “Is if you mean in comparison or likeness.”

The words hanged over them for a few moments, James beaming wickedly at him, as the brunette’s desire to escape from there heightened; to flee to where reality was not distorted and time and temperature were consistent. “Goodbye, Moriarty.” He muttered and began taking backwards steps to the exit. Making a great effort to will himself outside.

“Something is coming, Sherlock.” Moriarty commented. His taunting voice piercing through the room just as Sherlock was trying to _leave._ “Something so deliciously big you won’t see coming until it’s too late.” Jim assured, a prophecy spoken with sure words. The silver-eyed boy frowned, now changing his mind in light of the new information and desperately attempting to stay. To stay and demand answers from Moriarty. But his mind was already set on escaping and he felt the whimsical flakes of reality starting to fade away from his senses. He fought hard to linger; —if there was a threat to John’s kingdom he _had_ to know as much as he could about it— but he was already being pulled outside.

Moriarty smiled. “And when the whole kingdom is in ashes, it won’t matter on which side of the dome you belong.” The consulting villain concluded, the sound of his voice distant and low-quality, as if coming from a radio far, far away.

Sherlock tried to hold on, but Moriarty’s mind fought him back violently, and with a last blurred sight at the only universe that would grant him the answers he needed, he was pushed back and into his body once more. “No!” He exclaimed, as the castle’s office shattered like glass around him and left him knocked back on the floor of the circular padded room next to a living corpse.

 

 

* * *

 

 

“Well, here’s the painting from the cellar, no use without its eyes.” The voice could be heard even from the hallway. “Slipper? No, too soft.” It said, a frantic tone over the sound of some ruckus and one loud bang coming from the dorm chamber. “Transcript! I need to find the transcript. Of the war or maybe the book.” Greg was completely confused at the words and hesitated in actually presenting himself in his friend’s room when, whatever it was, was happening; but he _really_ needed his help. “Specially from two centuries ago, but it has to be green; or orange. Definitely anything but blue.” The opened door let the athlete take a peak inside from afar. “Or perhaps the painting. No! It’s all wrong!” A barely noticeable figure clad in dusty blue was hunched over a mess of different objects as he threw aside every single stupid and wrong thing that was never what he really wanted. Greg didn’t know with whom he was talking, no other person could be seen in the room. “Wrong? Why is it wrong? Oh yes, the eyes.” The boy said, as he stood up. “And this is too cheap and wrong! Everything is wrong! Wrong! _Wrong_!” The yelling made Greg frustrated already, and he decided to clear his throat and let his presence be known by his host.

The other raised his head, like a lion baffled at being interrupted from his desperate dinner. “For the love of-” Lestrade exclaimed once he stepped inside the room and stared at a very frantic and honestly insane-looking Sherlock; brunette curls in disarray, eyes open wide and spear in hand, “What’s happening here!?” He asked as he hastily closed the door in order to avoid getting heard by any passerby. And then, sparing a thought about the picture painted behind his back, he took a moment and locked it too.

He turned around and gaped at the chaos that ‘ _Hurricane Sherlock’_ had left in his wake, which appeared even more mental than usual; and yet Lestrade could swear the creepy photographs pinned all over the walls looked mild against the expression on the other’s face. After a few moments of gawking at each other, the younger boy shook his head and shrugged, then attempted to pass right through him with a nonchalant stalk only to collide quite painfully with Greg’s quite tangible form.

“Oh, you’re actually here.” He exclaimed, a bewildered tone in his words as his silver eyes danced between a million different things in the room. As if his sight were catching way more than any normal vision could, Lestrade just hoped he wasn’t actually seeing something that wasn’t there. “You might want to step away from that plant, unless you want to find yourself in a different dimension.” Sherlock said, as he returned to frenetically rummaging his belongings with escalating levels of anxiousness. “You could end up having two heads, or green skin, or no skin! I haven’t had the time to properly test the effects of magical-” He suddenly stopped —both movements and speech— and the other boy found nothing more to do than stand back and wait expectingly for the situation to make a tiny sliver of sense. He didn’t hold out much hope for that, though.

Sherlock then ran to the window, where he oddly concealed his form behind the curtains as he peered outside. “Come! Look!” He gestured to the other rebel to approach. “It’s _them_ again.” He explained, as the both of them now saw into the garden where a few people could be seen having lunch. “They’re chasing me.” The curly-haired man continued. “It’s like they grabbed me and I can’t untangled them. You see it? The plants are doing it now too.” His slender finger pointed to something in the distance; however, Greg failed to know what he was supposed to be watching. “Did you notice? I saw that one move about an hour ago. Doesn’t that sound suspicious?” And that’s when Greg knew his friend’s sanity had finally deserted him.

“It sounds insane, mate.” Lestrade commented, stepping away and quickly docking as the other whirled around too, wanting to avoid any proximity with the weapon his friend was still carrying and so carelessly waving around. At the sight of it, Sherlock chose the moment to stop and hiss at him. Literally _hissed._

The athlete then chose to ignore the heavy knot inside his throat and bravely stepped forward. Taking care to inspect the other quite detailedly. “What!?” Sherlock asked at the face of the scrutiny. “What!?” He repeated, when no explanation seemed forthcoming; apparently his —normally meagre to begin with— patience was gone too.

“Are you using again?” Greg went straight to the punch; they had all lately faced scarier things than Sherlock in one of his _‘fits’_ —although perhaps not by much.

The other’s eyebrow’s immediately scrunched up, as he half-shoved the other aside. “Fuck _off_!” Greg had to catch himself on one of the upturned chairs before he collided with some unnamed thing of which he really didn’t want to know the precedence. 

“Everything is spiralling!” The boy with the silver eyes threw his hands into the air, finally letting go of the spear in his grasp. “And I still haven’t figured out where John’s dreams came from or why now he suddenly buys me a violin as if I wasn’t a complete arsehole to him half of the time, not even letting him kiss me.” His pacing was making Lestrade dizzy, but he was scared of attempting to reach out to him and ending up with his hand chewed off. So he stayed rooted to the spot, eyes wide and cold sweat running down his neck. “And Mary’s still hiding something, I’m certain of it! And the East Wind is coming. Not to mention I have no clue as to how _the hell_ I managed to escape what has always been deemed an unescapable prison when there was clearly no reason for me to get away.” Sherlock ranted on, not caring —or maybe not remembering— Greg was hearing everything he was saying and catching probably just half of it.

“It really bothers you?” The older boy asked, once he recognised a subject to which he could offer insight. “Not knowing why Moriarty is there and you’re not?” The question was not expected by Sherlock; as his constant, speeding dialogue with himself stopped completely and allowed him to acknowledge his presence at last. 

“Go play idiot somewhere else.” He exclaimed, and the other wondered if perhaps being invisible had not been a better choice for him given the circumstances. “ _Of course_ it bothers me!” Sherlock admitted with ragged breath. “I need to know how I managed to get out before our friend finds out for himself and does the same. And I can’t do anything because there is someone taking a fucking picture of me every single time I open my mouth to say _‘Boo!’”_ As his rant came to a close he panted, but then started gasping, as if fighting for air and Greg saw his grey irises turn with a swirling shade of bright lime green; but before he could say something, Sherlock had blinked and the colour was gone, and his eyes were back to their stormy colour of usual.

“Woah! Easy there, tiger.” He exclaimed, raising his muscular arms and showing the other his hands in an attempt to placate him. Which appeared to have worked to some extent at least, as the other’s respiration lulled down to normal again.

Sherlock turned to brace himself on the mantle, clearly exhausted and a tad embarrassed by his outburst. “No.” He said, with his hunched back turned to the athlete. “It’s anything _but_ easy.” He explained, his tone was even more chilly than the slight breeze entering from the open window beside them. “Don’t you ever miss screaming at people and having them just run away?” Sherlock turned back then, and his query sounded sewn with even more questions.

“Nah.” Lestrade scratched the back of his neck and shrugged. “I mean, it’s fun but we have different lives now.” He said, however, the explanation didn’t seem to satisfy his friend. 

At that moment they heard the tumblers in the lock turn and someone slink into the room. The three of them surprised to find themselves face to face with the other.

“Anderson what the hell are you doing here?” Sherlock demanded, crossing his arms with a stance that managed to look frightening despite the soft dressing gown slipping from one of his shoulders.

“Well,” The boy answered. “I mean. You’re so cool, and have such nice taste. I thought I could borrow some things of yours to replicate so I can-” Anderson’s eyes looked expectantly to both of them making Greg want to laugh hysterically. The rebel sighed and rolled his eyes. Perhaps even funnier than the situation, was Sherlock’s reaction to Anderson’s new found admiration for him since he had saved the kingdom form a translucent dragon.

“How did you get a key?” Sherlock continued his interrogation, slowly stalking towards the other, as Philip shrank in size in the face of it.

“Now Sherlock, don’t worry,” He assured with raised hands. “I took one to make a copy last time I was here and you were sleeping. But it’s safe with me I just-” Sherlock, horrified at the notion of Philip wandering around while he was laying helpless and vulnerable, reeled back. “Out now!” He commanded. Greg supposed his friend really must be at the end of his rope if he failed to notice Anderson stealing things from his room, let alone sneaking in while he was there.

“Fine, fine.” The other retreated, smiling nervously. “But if you need me-” The expressions on their faces must have said everything since the other hasted and almost tripped in his attempt to get away. “Okay, I’m going.”

“Leave the key.” Greg said, just before he disappeared from sight; they couldn’t allow him to be able to be around when they needed secrecy. Once the boy was gone and the key was sat in the non-charred parts of Sherlock’s dresser said curly-haired boy sighed and sat down on his four-poster bed. On top of various papers and texts, and running his hand over his brown ringlets.

“So, do you have it?” Greg questioned. Not even caring if he sounded eager. Ignoring the other flopping back on the mattress and placing an arm over his tired eyes.

“Yes. It’s on the desk somewhere.” Responded Sherlock waving a hand in the general direction of his worktop. After a few moments of looking among some very questionable things, Lestrade was able to find what he was looking for and cheered in triumph.

“And this will definitely make me see the truth of anything I want?” He asked, eyeing the orange, slightly turbulent liquid inside the glass flask.

“And vice versa.” The silver-gazed confirmed. “Are you sure this is what you desire?” He asked, sight fixing with his friend’s as he sat up and closed his dressing gown around his thin frame. “The reason I’m asking is because If I took it and anyone looked at me right now, I would get myself immediately sent back to the isle.” He grimaced. “Not that it sounds completely unappealing, but you know…”

Greg squinted his eyes, as if trying to decipher whether he could manage to understand the strange emotion floating over Sherlock’s face. But it turns out he’s even less skilled at observing his friend, than how said friend always assures he is at observing others. “I’ll take my chances.” He settled on the truth, as he didn’t know what else to say.

“Yes. I suppose.” Was the brunette’s cryptic answer, his eyes once again appearing focused. “Now, go.” He ordered. “I have a picnic in thirteen minutes.” And that’s how Greg left him, staring deeply into the wall, with every single problem up on it and clearly not a will to let anyone try and unravel it for him.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The lake at the middle of the Enchanted Forest looked quite the same as the last time they had been there. Not that Sherlock particularly cared or was even able to notice, thoughts about a million other more important issues plagued him enough to make him disregard useless details like that. Or so he liked to pretend.

The truth was that in situations such as this, the rebel often tended to over-experience details, and that —on top of everything else— was yet another reason to overwhelm him. The soft yellow blanket under them was scratching the sliver of skin that peeked out from his trouser legs, and the glow of the light reflecting on the lake felt horribly blinding. Thankfully, blocking part of his view and most of the light was John; sitting in front of him with that shit-eating grin on his face. Happily munching on the fourth appetiser of the afternoon.

“Hors d’oeuvre?” Sherlock commented, cheekily raising one eyebrow and attempting to rid himself of the heavy feeling all over his body. The king’s good mood was certainly aiding in this quest.

“God, yes.” The blonde responded without any shame, nodding earnestly and not caring one bit that his boyfriend was practically laughing at his eagerness; making the royal even more bewildering to the silver-eyed boy, who passed the basket and watched as John engulfed the delicacy in two bites. “This is hands down the best thing I’ve ever eaten.” He said, attempting to discreetly lick the residue on his fingers without seeming rude; not that Sherlock cared about that.

“You really like it.” He said, blinking at how amazed his voice sounded in the quiet of the forest. He squinted his eyes, but the royal just nodded and continued savouring the dumpling, and so, at the face of such trust from the other, he relaxed. 

“Like it?” John asked, his expression open and completely blissed out. “I-” He started, his words slow and smooth as he approached to reach past Sherlock and grab another small dumpling; his face coming close to the other’s as he popped the food inside his mouth with a big grin. “… _adore_ it.” He ended, with his characteristic level of sass as he sat back down on the blanket.

The rebel laughed and shook his head, he couldn’t help in reveling in the presence of the ridiculous boy in front of him, as much as the guilt wanted to boil inside his veins. He picked up a piece of cucumber from a bowl and tossed it back with the other rejects.

“Clafoutis?” John asked, as he offered a delicious-looking tart to his lips. But Sherlock backed away, ignoring the smell of fresh strawberries and muttering, _‘Digestion slows me down.’_

“No, no.” The king chastised just before he had even gotten the sentence out, smiling fondly as he pushed the tart more insistently. “You’re not getting out of eating with me.” He stated, his commanding voice getting better every day. Sherlock would be able to feel prouder of him for becoming more and more like a king with each passing moment if he were not currently being attacked by a dessert. _“_ Although I don’t doubt I could eat all of it myself but- _”_ John said.

“Fine.” The younger boy conceded, unable to resist both the sweet taste he knew he would get and more nagging from the royal; if there was one person in the whole of Auradon who was equally as stubborn as himself, it was definitely John Watson.

“This is fantastic.” The blonde repeated, and the other could read the appreciation over his transparent features. “I’ll never know how you managed.” He said. “From the moment I met you I knew you were brilliant, but I didn’t know you could make _this_.” He admitted, and it sounded like the truth.

“John, the only thing I make is grown men cry.” Was the automatic response, yet it did nothing to hover over the knot inside his gut he acquired at hearing John being so impressed by something he hadn’t technically done.

“And now sweets.” The royal offered.

“And now sweets, it seems.” He accepted, biting his lower lip while he sighed as if he also couldn’t believe what he had achieved. What he couldn’t believe is how long he had managed to keep this up; he also hated the fact that just a few moon-cycles prior, he would not have minded in the least. He turned his head fully to regard his boyfriend., the hopeful look he encountered was somehow both marvellous and disheartening at once. “You’re surprised.” He said, as he shifted to pop a button from his suffocating baby blue shirt, and arrange his khaki trousers.

“Well, yeah.” John assured, “You keep surprising me.” He said between bites of something of which Sherlock had completely forgotten the name. The blonde leaned back and admired the whole array of dishes in front of him. Plates of beef andquiche. A quaint-looking basket of freshly-baked bread next to a bowl of delicate pastries. Plates and plates of different French favourites that looked fitted for a royal feast. “Every single dish that was served to my parents during their first meal together.” The king commented, his voice faint of breath. “It must have taken you ages.” Then his beautiful big blue eyes raised to look at him, in the exact same way in which he had been staring at the food just seconds earlier. “It was what? Three days?”

“Don’t even ask.” The boy averted his gaze and pulled at a lose thread on the blanket, hoping the subject would die a painful death and they would move on to something that had nothing to do with him, and his ability to lie so shamelessly to the one person he regarded above all others.

But once John Watson got something inside his often naive brain, there was no force that could deter him from it. “Well,” He said. “It really means a lot, you taking the time away from everything to do all this for me.” He cleared his throat, as Sherlock did his best to stay completely still and quiet. “I know things have been frantic lately, specially with everything that you’ve been put through.” The blonde reached and placed his warm hand over Sherlock’s. “I’ve missed you.” He said, shattering something inside the other’s chest into a million pieces. The rebel now remembered why he had deemed things such as these _‘dangerous’_ before. It seemed he had been defeated for a long time now. “We don’t get much time to be just us anymore.” John said, his eyes showing regret but also hope, a slight believe that they would be able to change that situation.

At least at that Sherlock could smile. A truth between an ocean of deception; he was relieved that the king saw it that way too. “Clearly.” He responded. As the other ran a hand through his curls, in the same understanding manner he had done when Sherlock had explained —more like manufactured— a reason why he was not comfortable with kissing him just yet. Not because he was inexperienced or other such nonsense —hell only knew just _how_ experienced he actually was— but because ‘ _I’m actually an arsehole and it’s only a matter of time before you find that out too’_ is probably not a good thing to say to someone you so desperately, and quite foolishly don’t desire to push away. 

John appeared to have moved on while he was thinking and shifted his attention back to the dessert he was engulfing, managing to get part of it over his face. The brunette chuckled and pointedly threw a small napkin to him. “You can’t take me anywhere, right?” The king commented, and the giggle Sherlock let out would forever be labeled under _‘things too embarrassing to actually have happen’_ inside his Mind Palace. The rebel thought things would probably never go as well for him as that moment, with the sunlight hitting John’s blonde hair and a big adoring smile on his face as he joked about their first date. No matter if every other aspect of his frustrating life was falling apart.

After a few moments of trying to get rid of the mess, but just managing to make it even bigger the older boy gave up. “Okay, it’s a mess,” He said. “Do you have another napkin or-” He searched for something to clean his mouth and reached for the big picnic basket that the curly-haired boy had packed.

Sherlock had been feeling so at ease he forgot that inside the basket was one little detail that he was supposed to be concealing at all costs. “Anticipating for a mess with-” He commented, reeling for a lengthy explanation of the perks of being able to predict all outcomes, when John proved himself an anomaly once more.

“Sherlock?” He asked, the easy and delighted tone completely absent from his voice now. When the rebel looked up he had to close his eyes to avoid seeing John’s suspicious expression for just one more moment as he let go of the napkin and held the spell book on his right hand.

“Surprise?” Sherlock tried, his face breaking in a fake grin; John, however, didn’t seem amused in the least.

“What’s this?” He asked, so clearly giving him a last chance to explain his motivation. The King may be naive, and so foolishly ready to believe in the best of people, but he was _not_ a stupid man. 

Sherlock sighed. “You know what that is.” He said, fractured glass shattering inside his chest. “I packed it last minute,” His hasty words sounded like blatant lies even to his own ears, digging him even further inside the hole. “As a precaution, in case it rained or-”

The blonde ignored his excuses, flipping the pages through bookmarks with increasing displeasure. “Speed reading,” His mouth turned down and the muscles in his shoulders locking up with tension. “Genetic attributes transformation,” He kept reading after his eyes darted to his artificially brunette curls. Sherlock’s hand started to shake, catastrophe was afoot, and he was helpless to fix anything. The older boy then paused and a defeated surprise invaded his face. “ _Cooking spell_.” He said, his eyebrows bunched up as his sight darted between the food and his lying boyfriend. “I gave you-” He halted and cleared his throat. “I gave you _props_ for adapting so well, for trying your hardest.” 

Sherlock shut his eyes intently, the nails on his fingers digging painfully into his palms. Reciting the enchanted words to fix it. To erase the moment; or what was it? Return it? Reverse it?

John seemed to pick up in his intention before the other could figure out the perfect wording. “Are you trying to _spell me_ right now?” He yelled, standing up and staring accusingly at the silver-gaze boy. “Oh, this is just _great_.” What moments before had been a pleased smile, now had turned into a dangerous sign of anger. His arms crossing over his strong chest.

“John, it’s not exactly easy-” The words died in Sherlock’s throat, he was afraid his stomach was going to return the Clafoutis; regretting having listened to John when he told him to eat.

“Yes!” The other insisted. “Some things are hard, Sherlock!” The power to his voice impossible to mask in the quiet and stillness of the lake next to them. Sherlock felt it unfair of it to appear so serene when a tornado was yanking away at his reality. “Do you think learning how to be king is easy for me?” The blonde asked.

“No,” Was the only thing that was able to pass the rebel’s lips. Any other information about statistics and natural talents had been severed before it had finished forming.

“I thought we were doing this together.” John closed his eyes, apparently not standing to look at his boyfriend for one single second more. The betrayed tone in his words contrasting with the angry flaring of his nostrils. 

“We are.” Sherlock then stood up too. He approached the other, knowing his assurances were like attempting to cure a stab wound with bandaids. All of the things he had done in frustration and despair were falling down over his head.

“No, we’re not!” John said. “We’ve not been doing it together.” The line of his shoulders deflating as his tone rose higher in volume, if any had been close by, they would have heard the hurt in every single word. “You’ve been lying to my face. Keeping secrets,” Sherlock bit his lower lip, willing the unwanted emotion to reel back and crawl to the wretched cave whence it came. “You promised me not to use unsupervised magic.” The royal commented. “I thought we were past that. You’re not in _The Isle of the Lost_ anymore.”

The comment brought every ugly emotion Sherlock had been feeling inside bubbling up to the surface. “Oh, _trust me_. I know.” He spat back. What had been unfamiliar shame now morphing into irritation.

“Then why?” John’s question was so innocent and genuine, and Sherlock had not the will to lie to him any more. 

“Because I’m not like them, John!” He exclaimed, and if John had looked surprised before, he now looked truly shocked for the first time of the evening. “I’m not like _any_ of you.” The breaking point evident in the crack of his voice when he lashed out. The tears in the brunette’s eyes weren’t exactly doing anything to improve the situation. “I can’t be like those princes and princesses that inhabit this kingdom.” He said. “I’m a big fake, alright? A facade. Hair? Fake.” He said, “Clothes? Fake.” He gestured said offending brown curls and the horrible plain jumper he wore. “Manners. Cooking. All _fake_!” The rebel felt his heart beat so loud that he was sure he heard it inside his ears, behind his eyes, in the splatter of the waterfall at the end of the lake.

Sherlock reached out for the book and John took a step away from him. The rebel closed his eyes and placed his slender hands beneath his chin; and just a moment later the sumptuous feast was gone and in its place sat a lonely plate with bread and jam on it, accompanied only by a bleak glass of milk. “This is it,” Sherlock said. “ _This_ is who I really am.”

“Sherlock,” John’s anger had deflated slightly, but the lines in his jaw were still tense, now coupled with deep frown lines appearing above his misty eyes. The curly-haired boy looked at him with big sad eyes and backed away, retreating and leaving behind a rattled and frayed John Watson.

He had just enough distance to listen as the blonde stalked angrily to the table and picked up the bread. He screamed _‘Jam on toast is my favourite!’_ at his disappearing back. The last thing Sherlock heard before he crossed the bridge over the lake was the shrill clatter when the other flung the toast back on the plate.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Sherlock’s leather coat flapped behind him against the wind as he rushed towards the outskirts of the land on top of John’s motorcycle.

He was aware that taking it would be a direct slight to the royal, but he was unable to go on any longer; and this last act of wretchedness could help John understand; remind him who he was and where he’d come from. Anger would mask hurt and the king would move on and forget all about him and the terrible things he’d done, and how futile it was to hope he won’t continue to do them.

He stopped at the secluded side of the beach, where the sand was mostly rocks and moss, and the Isle could be seen perfectly across the ocean. He reached inside his coat for the spell book. Taking a deep breath, he closed his eyes; and as his breath slowly released, the sparks in his head dissipated and he was left with a head of vibrant violet curls glinting in the sunset glow.

He twisted around to stare at the kingdom, taking a last look at the castle in the distance. Tears streamed down his cheeks; almost making him wish to turn back, but he allowed himself just one tiny moment of helpless emotion before angrily wiping the moisture away and turning his back to Auradon.

He casted a hasty spell to ensure the vehicle would arrive to its destination without any trouble, and with one last look at the hardcover book, he snapped it close and leaned forward in the seat. “Into battle.” He muttered, as he turned the engine on once more and accelerated, his figure growing smaller as he raced across the water.

 

 

* * *

 

 

John was _drowning_ in work. Which in this particular case was a positive thing since it allowed him little time for distracting thoughts about Sherlock and the fight they had had earlier that noon. The double lamps casting bright lights over his room at this time of morning did nothing to alleviate the crunching darkness of guilt he felt in his stomach. File after file, and decree after decree made him want to tear his soft blonde hair out in the best days; today, they were _unbearable._

However, as king he could barely afford time for personal affairs, and no matter how awful he felt; with head down, shoulders tense, and frown displayed deeply, he kept on reading.

Just as he was about to finish sorting yet another matter about the upcoming Cotillion, a timid knock sounded on his mahogany door. The royal wondered who it could be at 2:17 in the morning, recalling he had ordered —more like bullied— Mike to go to bed a few minutes earlier.

The figure that entered his private chambers was not what he had expected —he had been half-hoping it was Sherlock wanting to talk about the previous afternoon— so he placed the fountain pen down on the desk and drew his full attention to the sight of Irene Adler standing at his door, clad in a perfect blue nightdress and black dressing gown.

“Come on in.” John said, and gestured her to take a seat. She refused, and the expression on her face gave the boy pause. She shut the door forcefully and turned to regard him in what could only be described as worry and sympathy. _Oh, no._

When her explanation finally came, John felt as if he didn’t really need to hear it; already knowing deep in his chest what it could be for her to look at him that way. “Sherlock’s gone back to The Isle.” She said, and at that, the king felt all the air being sucked right out from his lungs.

 

 


	5. Chapter 4: Lessons Of Corruption

 

[ ](https://ibb.co/9qmfqkX)

 

  

 

  

> Corruption is the fun process by which something,  
>  typically a concept or naive person, is changed  
>  from its original use, nature, or meaning to one that  
>  _ is regarded as erroneous or debased by society.  
>  _ _ It’s to spoil something so throughly that its  
>  _ very reality is transformed.

 

 

John could feel Irene’s gaze track him in worry, his back was hunched over the desk and both his fists were scrunching the documents under them carelessly. 

The girl took steps forward to reach him, and extended an arm; with it, she offered John a piece of wrinkled paper, which he took with shaking hands. As he was about to read it, she gathered his attention again and placed in his grasp the royal ring he had gifted Sherlock the day of his coronation. The crack that made its way through the king’s heart splitting open even further at the horrid sight of the shiny band in his palm, when it should be around Sherlock’s finger instead.

“He left this on top of a violin case.” The indigo-haired girl explained as he slowly read the note with clutching fingers. What he found there did not make the blonde feel better, in fact, knowing that the rebel had left this gift behind too, crushed his already battered soul.

“This is my fault.” He said, ignoring completely as Irene shook her head in disagreement with her arms crossed over her chest. “I mucked it up.” John’s hands came to card through his blonde strands, lingering on his neck. “He’s been under so much pressure lately,” He commented, a sorrowful tone in his words. He slowly paced around the mahogany desk, trying to clear his head from the crushing guilt. “And instead of being understanding, I went all beast on him!” His fists forcefully slamming the desk startled the girl, but she remained still while the king pinched the bridge of his nose.

“I told him to stop pushing it.” She said, the red on her lips doing nothing to hide the grimace she wore. Standing in front of him, with one hip cocked but no real intention behind it, it seemed to John she was the most disheveled he had ever seen her. “But we both know Sherlock can be…” She trailed off, but John had understood exactly what she meant.

“I know,” He sighed, “But he’s just,” There was no way for him to describe what he believed about the young fae. About the real opinion of what Sherlock had come to do in his world. “God, he’s-” He stopped, the words almost painful coming out of his lips. From the moment he had met Sherlock he had recognised how special he truly was, and now he had allowed his temper to get the better of him instead of trying to understand why he had done such a thing. “I have to make him come back.” He said.

Irene snorted at that, fiddling with an indigo strand of hair that had fallen out from her artfully arranged bun. “I don’t think even if you dangled a whole room of body parts as bait, he would come.” She commented, and the royal had no choice but to agree. Sherlock was a highly stubborn person —that was public knowledge— yet that didn’t mean that John couldn’t be even worse.

“Then I’ll go there,” He declared, watching the girl with wide eyes and hesitant hope in his expression. “I’ll say sorry, and beg him to come home.” The blonde said, perhaps his plan was not entirely _‘planned’_ out, but he was certain that trying and having it fail in epic proportions was better than the alternative, he couldn’t afford to lose him now. The pile of documents over his table laid forgotten over the wood, with not even a glance from the king in their direction. Getting Sherlock back was more important than anything those documents could contain.

“You’d get attacked before you even find him.” She reminded him, her arms gesturing to his surroundings. Perhaps his neat room, —filled to the brim with keepsakes of his fondest memories— was not the most common proof for one’s character, but John’s collection of soft jumpers were more eloquent than he had believed possible. He huffed, frustration levels evident as he came to stand in front of the window. His sight fixed on the piece of land across the ocean, the way it had been relentlessly drawn to it for most of his life.

“I can’t just do nothing.” He whispered, afraid that even the thought of giving up would ruin what he had found. The note in his hands singing a red print on his palm, as the guilty reflection of himself casted by the glass frightened him with its intensity.

The girl behind him stared at him with sympathy in her eyes. Despite being worried herself to lose her friend, she still found it fitting to feel pity for _him_ in this situation. “You’ll be eaten alive.” She said. Another fact that John had no evidence to deny. He had no idea how the island worked, the inner system known only to those who were native. It was no giant leap to predict he would probably be robbed, beaten and completely helpless within two minutes of his arrival. This thought was not enough to deter him though. Seeing his determination, the girl sighed. “I’ll come with you.” She declared.

The blonde turned to look at her with wide eyes, blinking at her as he studied her expression. “Are you sure?” He asked.

Irene nodded, her expression not entirely glad with the situation. “He’s family.” She explained. “Greg should come too.” The girl started pacing too, already thinking in what would be the best course of action to pull this off. “We’ll need all the muscle we can get since none of us is very liked there at the moment.” She said, trying to remember how Sherlock planned things when they were back in The Isle stealing and conning for a living.

“Thank you.” John said, as he placed a hand on her shoulder and smiled. He was aware that apart from Sherlock, he had also gained two irreplaceable friends when his proclamation was put in motion, and he would always appreciate that.

“Let’s just get two things straight.” Irene said, “You have to promise me I won’t get stuck there again, no matter what.” She added, tying the sash of her dressing gown tighter around her slender body in determination as her gaze wandered about the room.

“I promise.” The king assured. Transmitting his loyalty through his very blue, very expressive eyes. “And?” He asked, fidgeting and stuffing his sweaty hands on the pockets of his light blue trousers; feeling rather self-conscious when he saw Irene’s slight smile turn into her usual mischievous smirk. 

“And there’s no way you’re going there looking like _that._ ” She said.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The motorbike ended wrecked at the bottom of the ocean just after crossing the barrier. Good thing Sherlock had the foresight to anticipate it and not end with him in the water too. The last thing he needed in this wretched day was having to swim —probably _attempt_ to swim and then drown— towards shore. 

The market at the docks was the same as it always had been, full of crates and robbers trying to nick anything that was out of sight from their owners for just a second. Chaos and disaster waiting to happen; he would feel better if he actually managed to be the cause of it by the end of the day. 

He strolled down the main aisle, big, black leather coat fanning behind him. “Hey!”Someone yelled at him, as he carelessly picked up a piece of stale bread and took a big bite of it. He succeeded to prevent gagging at its foul taste, hiding the fact from the onlookers well, —even if he couldn’t hide it from himself. The rebel kept walking, smirking as he saw shocked faces staring at him and probably questioning what the fuck he was doing there, scared at his sure steps. It was a hell of a feeling to know people still feared him, even after being away and through the washing machine for so long. 

Over one of the walls, he encountered a pin up, John’s and his own faces smiling at him as he stared at the painted expressions. A couple backed away as they saw him approaching and left him alone with the poster. Someone had written insults around them and drawn crowns and crosses over their features. Sherlock’s entire body felt warm, suffocating heat of outrage coursing through him at the sight of the both of them together. He took a second to examine his grimacing brunette self, while avoiding lingering on John’s perfect face, and then proceeded to rip the poster off the wall and throw it at his back in a bunched-up ball. After that, he kept going until he arrived to his destination.

Sherlock stopped just before a gate in front of a flight of crooked stairs, rotten wood and patched-up columns surrounding him. He picked up a nearby rock and threw it straight to a sign, smirking as he hit the bullseye in the very first try, which made the metal gate roll up and grant him access. He ruffled his bright violet curls and smiled; breathing in the scent of being back where he was unstoppable and where there was no such thing as _‘too much’_.

He climbed the stairs and entered a small shop, filled with every sort of paint and dye. Stacks and rows of canned colours in all the outrageous shades he preferred. The walls and stands stained with splashes of bright greens and oranges; making the assault to the senses even more intense. Sherlock was in dire need of some dyes for the first experiment/trick he would conduct now that he was back and free, and this was the perfect place to get them.

“Sherlock!” A young boy exclaimed the moment he spotted him, his smiling face excited as he let go of the broom he carried and slammed his little body against him, hugging the rebel’s waist.

“Oh hello, Archie.” Sherlock answered, reluctantly patting softly the light brown strands of coiled hair; fixing his gaze in the few bright coloured strands he could note in between all the dull brunette.

“Is Irene back too?” Archie asked and released him from his dead grip. He bit his lip and looked up at the older boy as if he could deliver the news of salvation.

“As if.” Sherlock huffed and stepped through the transparent plastic curtain. His heavy boots careful not to disrupt the fresh paint covering sections of the floor. The face of the small boy fell a bit at hearing his favourite ‘grown up’ —apart from Sherlock, who was really only 5 or 6 cycles his senior— was still away. “I forgot you don’t open until midnight,” The violet-haired boy said, as he removed his gloves and walked into the room fully. “Place looks good.” He commented, with an approving smirk, only to watch as the young boy beamed and puffed his little chest. Sherlock reached inside his coat. “I brought you something.” He said as he took out a small book from one of his inside pockets.

“Oh! Does it have pictures?” Archie asked, bouncing as he approached and reached his arms to get his hands on the paperback as soon as possible. Sherlock smirked, —a villain kid that loved books, now _that’s_ magic.

“Loads,” The silver-eyed responded. “Graphic,” Making special emphasis on the incredible qualities. “Blood, maggots, the works.” He said, distractedly waving his hands as he paced around the place and inspected the subtle differences around since he had last been there. Archie was already hunched down over the book, and exclaiming _‘Yes!’_ when he encountered a particularly gruesome photograph.

“How’s the crazy grandmother?” Sherlock sat down over one high chair and fidgeted with a stranded brush over the side table next to it.“Is she dead yet?” He asked, a disinterested tone over his words while he crossed his legs and leaned back.

“No,” The boy answered, not turning his gaze away from the amazing pages. “She just went from wicked to wicked _and_ boring.” He complained, starting to sound exactly like Sherlock did; the rebel felt a wave of pride run through him at being a sort-of-bad influence on the curious child, specially when knowledge was under-appreciatedcompared to strength among the villains.

“Not really much of a switch then.” The older boy commented, drawing a chuckle out of the other.

“She makes me do a lot of scrubbing and sweeping,” Archie said, completely oblivious to said chores he was clearly neglecting while enjoying Sherlock’s gift. “Lots and lots of sweeping.”

“You want me to show you how to make her hair disappear?” The violet-curled boy offered, ready to gather the mild-dozing agent and electric razor for him. He arched an eyebrow at the boy as the other giggled.

“I know you were being too nice in the telly!” He exclaimed excitedly, closing his book and tucking it gently in one of his hiding places just before approaching the other.

The silver-gazed boy leaned forward with a conspiring expression, and secretively whispered. “Don’t worry, Archie. I’m still nasty.” After that, he straightened up and smiled.

“I like your hair this way,” The boy said, as he so clearly compared his vibrant purple curls to his own few magical strands, discreetly poking out from behind the rest of his hair.

“I went back to being me, I guess. But you know,” The silver-eyed admitted. “Just _way_ worse.” He assured as he turned up his coat collar. Archie grinned and bounced on his spiky shoes. “What do you have for me?” Sherlock asked, just to have the younger boy haul a box of different powdered colours and translucent dyes for him. Presenting to him every new addition they had acquired and searching for Sherlock’s request among all the others. “Brilliant!” Said rebel commented as he selected what he needed.

Sherlock took some Auradon money from his pocket and placed it on the other’s hand. “For me?” Archie asked and grinned when he nodded at him to accept it. The brunette walked over the counter to place the coins on the money-machine across the room while Sherlock hung back and observed the rows of spray paint they offered.

“Fork it over, you runt.” A deep voice was heard behind him, and Sherlock twisted around just to encounter one of the last men he wished to see —besides Magnussen, of course. Archie reluctantly handed him the money. “And now the rest of it,” The man said, presenting his hand for the boy to place all of the coins from the machine. Sherlock’s jaw locked and his hands curled up into fists. “A pleasure.” The thief commented and made to leave only to be stopped by the violet-haired boy.

“Still running errands for E. I see.” Sherlock said, “Or do you actually get to keep what you steal now?” Victor turned around slowly, as if he had heard a ghost calling out for him straight out of the seance. 

“Well, well, well,” He said, a pleased grin breaking out on his face. “What a _nice_ surprise.” He drawled as he took a few steps to approach him. Sherlock stood still and placed his hands behind his back, assessing him in a bored manner.

“Victor.” He stated, his sight not backing down from the newcomer’s challenge. He could hear Archie stepping away from the counter to avoid getting mixed in whatever was about to happen.

“Wait until _she_ hears you’re back.” Victor commented while adjusting his black hat, one of his hands gracefully griping the money. He stood right in front of the silver-eyed boy, raking his sight down at him sleazily. “She’s never going to give you back your old position, you know?”

“That’s fine,” Sherlock responded, not allowing the other one inch of his territory, even if Victor had already crossed the line into his personal space. “Because I’ll be taking it.” Sherlock assured, arching an eyebrow at him, his mouth still curled in disgust, whether it was directed at the other or at himself —for what, or more specifically _who_ he had done in the past— was yet to be determined.

The ginger smirked at that, clearly appreciative of his relentless attitude. “Good times, eh?” He muttered with his gaze fixed on the other’s open collar and clavicle, “But I could hurt you now.” His comment was almost whispered as he reached a hand to trail a finger over Sherlock’s neck only to be brutally prevented by the violet-haired boy grabbing his wrist before he made contact. 

“Not without her permission, I bet.” The silver-gazed said as he took back the money from Victor’s hand and proceeded to hurl away his wrist. The ginger squinted at him, frowning as he observed him. Victor then smiled good-naturedly but his eyes were brimming with a mix of rage and interest; he shoved the objects on the counter to the floor, and with one last look at Sherlock, he turned around and crossed the plastic curtain. 

Sherlock watched him go with loathing, and he angrily shoved the coins he had gotten back on the counter; as he heard Archie mutter under his breath: “Great! More sweeping.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

Perhaps traveling at four in the morning to a place he didn’t know, and with a group of people that was hated there was not the most brilliant idea. But if they didn’t go to get Sherlock back right then, they would both miss Cotillion, and the realm would start wondering about the reason; which would then result in them questioning whether the royal couple was actually anywhere near ready to take on the responsibilities of managing a kingdom. And they couldn’t afford that; Sherlock’s heritage was already enough of a deterrent for people to be dubious about the whole thing, and this would only make it worse.

Of course, he could always leave things as they were and not follow after Sherlock, but if they were being honest, he was not able to let him go anymore than he was able to stop breathing, and he didn’t _want_ to. The rebel had quickly climbed the ladder for his affections, and he liked to believe —hope— that Sherlock needed him just as much as he did too.

“Greg,” The king said, as they were running down the stairs to the parking place. “You have the keys? Remote?” The other patted his pockets and retrieved both items, grinning in triumph.

“Got it.” Lestrade responded, slipping his hands inside his iconic fingerless gloves. Irene followed them as she fussed with the heavy dark blue jacket over John’s shoulders.

Mike was trailing after them with umbrella in hand, looking sharp and focused as ever. Clearly not having gone to sleep despite the king’s instructions to do so. “With you gone, _E_. has control of The Isle now.” He explained, briefing them on some unknown perils they could encounter while in the island. They hadn’t been there in several moon-cycles —except for John who hadn’t been there at all— and they needed all the intel they could get to solve this as fast as possible.

“Who’s _E._?” John asked, frowning at the others as they nodded in understanding. 

“A sea witch.” Mycroft said, “Daughter of the Leviathan, and unknown mother.”That was a name the blonde had heard before, in countless of stories about creatures and sirens wrecking ships and trapping pirates in the depths of the oceans. The mention of his descendant did not make him feel better in the least. “She always had a very unhealthy obsession with my brother.” The advisor concluded.

John turned to look at Irene for guidance as they all approached the vehicle that would take them through the barrier and into the land with no rules. Irene grimaced and shrugged. “She hates him.” She commented; still leaving several pieces of information out.

“Why?” The king asked, suddenly feeling as if his boyfriend was better known by everyone around him than himself; even though he knew thinking such a thing was incredibly unfair; they had just known him longer, he had to make sure he got those cycles to find out every little interesting thing about the other.

Mycroft sighed, handing Irene a bag with what John believed to be provisions for the trip as the blonde adjusted the straps on his boots and stood up. The size of them completely inaccurate, even if his feet actually fitted inside them. They just felt _wrong._ “You are aware of how Sherlock is,” Mike said. “Their antagonism goes way back.”

“He used to called her _‘shrimpy,’ ”_ Greg added, from above the car’s top where he was loading things to the trunk.

“Oh.” Was all John could think of to say to that, _‘Well, that explains it’_ He thought, still confused in whether he should laugh at the creativity or frown for the insult. Sherlock often had a way of inspiring both simultaneously.

“Yes.” Mycroft confirmed, scrunching up his nose in disgust at his brother’s antics. “So you’d do well to avoid her and her crew.” He said. “And stay away from anyone by the name of Magnussen and Moran too.” He advised, and John nodded in understanding as he looked up at him with eyes full of trust.

Greg rounded up the car, opening the door to the driver’s seat as he reached the front. “Okay, let’s go.” He said.

“Wait!” Exclaimed Irene, anxiously reaching her both arms up and tugging the beanie on top of John’s blonde hair in place. Sighing in relief as she made sure it covered most of his very recognisable head. She jumped into the co-pilot’s seat and closed the door.

“John,” Mike placed a hand on his arm just before the king boarded the backseat.John turned to listen to him, and the advisor’s expression was heart-broken. “My brother believes himself a hand grenade.” He said. “He’s only trying to minimise the casualties.”

John sighed and nodded reassuringly. He understood. _Damn_ , did he understood. “I’ll get him back.” He promised, and saw a rare, genuine expression of concern go away from the other’s face and be replaced with gratitude. The king entered the car and closed the door behind him. Watching his best friend grow smaller as the vehicle advanced over the pavement.

As they were moving towards the bridge, John took a chance to breathe, and leaned back on the seat. He dug out the note Sherlock had left him and opened it up. He had read it several times already, but that didn’t soften the blow he felt every time he saw those words written so carefully over the smooth surface. _‘I’m sorry’_ they read, and the royal couldn’t remember the last time he had heard Sherlock apologise to anyone. He had promised Mike he would get his brother back. But now, staring at those words scrawled on the bright paper, he was not so sure of it himself.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The trip to The Isle of the Lost went without any obstacle. They passed the dome, and entered the gloomy atmosphere of the island quite quickly. John figured the complete lack of traffic would do that to any road. The car left the bridge and entered a messy garage were everything appeared to be abandoned or barely functioning.

After they stepped out from the vehicle, Lestrade covered it with a dusty blanket he found in one of the boxes and made sure the car was completely out of sight. John took the opportunity to inspect the place, frowning as he saw the reality of how people in The Isle actually lived. The crooked and rotten structure of the walls was doing nothing to ease his mind about it.

“Greg?” Irene said, tugging on the black, sheer sleeves of he dress to hide from the cold wind. The blonde turned around to stare at the crates of junk next to the door as the other two talked. “It’s really weird being back here.” She commented, looking around her as if she expected the place to swallow her whole and never spit her back out.

“We’ll get in and get out.” Greg responded, placing a supporting hand over her shoulder as he smiled knowingly. 

At that moment John wandered inside to what could only be called a metal tube entrance; a long tunnel with indistinct loud noises coming from the end of it. “Hey! What’s in here.” He asked. Irene lifted her head up and swiftly followed him to tug him back into the open space.

“Trust me, you don’t wanna know.” Greg commented, as the other two exited the tunnel. “Just keep it chill,” He said, walking along the row of different walls, and away from the garage. “The last thing we need is our parents or Moran figuring out we’re here.” They needed to stay hidden as much as they could, an encounter with either of them would go down badly, and their mission required haste more than anything else.

Irene guided John across some alleys, making sure to keep an eye on him as well as following closely to Greg; avoiding being ambushed and determined to get to Sherlock’s less known bolthole quickly. A couple of kids with ripped clothing crashed against Irene’s figure. “Hey!” She yelled at one of them, as the little girl peaked inside her purse and took a handful of coins. “Stop!” Irene said, gripping tightly on their wrists, as they looked up at her with big eyes and dust over their chubby cheeks. Something inside her softened, and she released their thin wrists, nodding at them to scurry away with her money before she changed her mind. She stood still for a moment, until she realised she had lost track of their royal. “Ugh, John!”

Said king was wandering a few paces ahead, taking in his surroundings with big surprised eyes, smiling or frowning at the various things he encountered like a naive child in an amusement park. He approached a man leaning on a wall with a cigarette between his lips. “Hello, how-” He started, extending out his hand only to be lurched back by Greg.

“Stop,” Irene said, “This isn’t a parade.” Her mouth was tight and her eyes stern; _Scolding_ him. The other boy took care of scaring away the man, leaving them in peace in the middle of a junction between backroads.

“Keep your hands in your pockets unless you’re stealing.” Greg instructed, demonstrating the action, which made John narrow his eyes at the gesture. Lestrade crossed his muscular arms over his chest after, the poster picture of threatening. 

“And you either slouch or strut.” The indigo-haired said from behind him, placing a perfectly manicured hand over his back and pushing to get rid of his royally perfect posture. John complied, but felt uncomfortable in the new position and the dark and spiky clothes they had let him borrow. He smiled awkwardly at the both of them.

“And never, ever smile.” Lestrade added at his apologetic expression. “Unless you’re torturing something.”

John wrung his hands together, feeling terribly that he was probably not going to be able to pull off acting like any of them, it was just so different from what he was. “Okay, thanks.” He said, dubious of his actual ability to employ said advices.

“No! No _‘thank you’_ s.” The girl added, arching an eyebrow which made her frustrated expression even more intense. “And drop the _‘please’s_ too.” She said.

“But-” The blonde argued, confused and struggling to understand why it was so important that they taught him how to be —or appear— a criminal.

“Look, you need to blend in, or you’ll get us caught.” The other boy cut him off, acting nonchalant despite his hurried orders. Making the royal finally think about the importance of blending in, and how much he stood out acting like a prince.

Irene smiled, a mischievous smirk breaking out into her face. John gulped and stepped back, tugging his beanie in place. “Just lean back, and drag your feet.” She instructed, placing her elbow over his shoulder and angling towards his side. “And stop staring.” Her voice had turned sultry again, clearly amused at his fumbling attempts to appear naturally cool.

John followed the advice, frowning as he thought of why he was so unable to accomplish looking like that, he was usually quite smooth and confident in his skin; but something about slipping in a new persona resulted in him attempting too hard to look relaxed. “Okay, how do I look?” He asked.

The girl sighed. “Like you would lose a fight to an alley cat.” She said, as the smile was cleared from John’s features when he realised Greg had nicked his wallet when he was distracted. His big, mocking eyebrows rising in challenge and demonstration. 

John snatched it back and grimaced. “I’m trying my best-” He said, but Lestrade shook his head as if he weren’t impressed with his efforts. The royal turned hopeful blue eyes to Irene as he followed her into another alley and tried to copy her exact movements.

“Just forget you’re royalty.” The girl muttered, while twirling a strand of her deep blue hair. Sliding boldly over the floor in her sleek black shoes. “Break the rules, act like the world doesn’t deserve you.” Her voice continued along, as John found another man in their way. He was selling various items from inside a big green coat, and the royal picked a pair of sunglasses —which he believed would help him disappear in the crowd of uninterested miscreants and better hide his identity— and got out his wallet to pay.

Lestrade noticed as Irene glided along, he tugged the blonde back and gestured the other to walk away, fact that didn’t make the stranger very pleased. The man closed his coat and took a step forward, clearly aiming for a fight, but Greg shouldered past him and dragged John in front of him to scape. 

“Seriously, you need to not be yourself.” He commented, his fingerless gloves digging on his shoulders as they hurried along and away. A row of battered shops started over the hidden street corner they were walking, imposing in their looming, tall presence, as the narrow space between them closed in on the pedestrians. 

“Everybody’s got a little bit of wicked inside them.” Irene explained, raking her sight over his body as if attempting to uncover his darkest, most embarrassing secrets, —between Sherlock deducing his life story, including even his choice of breakfast, and The Woman probably having figured out what he _liked_ , John believed not a single thing about him was secret anymore. “You saw us when we first arrived to Auradon, just do that.” She whipped her hair back, as Greg smiled at her conspiringly. “And _don’t_ draw attention to yourself.”

“And if someone talks to me?” John asked, letting Irene fix his crisp clothes into disarray and arrange his posture once more. Smiling at him as she apparently found his scowl improving from all the fussing.

“Just ignore them.” Lestrade instructed, “Look at them in disgust and walk away.” He said, kicking away a wooden crate in their path. The blonde felt like he still needed all the help he could get to understand with accuracy what they meant by that.

“Kinda like Sherlock does when you wear that yellow jumper.” Irene called back, as she stepped over some stray junk over the road, and lead them on to their destination. 

It was like a lightbulb had gone on inside the royal’s head, perhaps he had no real knowledge of how to act like a villain, but Sherlock he knew intimately; and he believed he could _do_ Sherlock at least decently. “Okay, so…” He beamed and clapped Lestrade on the back as he bumped against him. He schooled his face into a deep annoyed scowl and relaxed his eyebrows into indifference, just like he had seen his boyfriend do a hundred times before when he was in a strop. “Like this?” He asked, his expression only missing a big turned-up collar to finish the resemblance. 

“It’s a start.” Lestrade approved. Both of the rebels shrugging and nodding to his improvement towards ill tempered; perhaps a bit too stroppy for the common criminal —Sherlock could get away with a lot of things for being that pretty and scary— but looking at each other in agreement of the effort.

“Yeah?” John asked, taking out the shades for which he had neglected to pay after the commotion and placing them over his eyes. “And how about this?” He said, as hismouth created a cheeky smirk and his left hand held up Greg’s stolen wallet.

Lestrade raged, and swiftly snatched it back. His face going from outraged to impressed in just a few seconds. “ _Now_ you’re talking.” He commented while he stuffed said wallet inside the pocket of his maroon leather vest once again. 

“And now I’m gonna leave, and not gonna thank you for the help.” John quipped and walked away nonchalantly, smiling at having recovered his confidence, as well as gaining a little bit of mischief on the way. Finding the worst of himself and embracing it, even if it was just for show.

“Chill there, man.” Greg rushed after him, as the indigo-haired girl laughed behind them. “You’ll scare the kids.” He joked and continued on the way to find the missing rebel. 

John looked back and laughed discreetly with them, only to bump into another body in his distraction. “Hey!” The stranger yelled, letting go of the potatoes he had just stolen from a street corner.The band on his forehead highlighting his big nose. “Hey, I know you.” He said, his eyes squinting and trying to place them in his memory.

“Uhm, no.” John muttered, grimacing uninterestedly, “Don’t know you either, man.” He said, while his heartbeat sounded loud in his ears and his hands started sweating inside his leather gloves. Irene and Greg hung back and subtly attempted to turn their faces.

“Of course you fucking know me.” He exclaimed. “I’m Sebastian, son of Wilkes. Rightful Lord of Millest Abbey.” He puffed out his chest, and grinned, John put on his best indifferent face but turned around to give his friends panicked eyes. All his villainous training went completely out of his head at the unexpected obstacle. 

“Congratulations. Now if you’ll excuse us-” Irene said, apparently knowing who he was and trying hard not to get recognised. She waved him off, attempting to turn the situation back to just the three of them; but Sebastian —it seems that was his name— was not having a single second of it. 

“Wait,” He said, his eyes growing big and round, “Irene?” He asked. “Greg?” The grin in his face became bigger, while the blonde heard his friend curse under his breath. 

“No, we’re not-” The girl was swift to counter, but the damage was already done.John saw Irene’s face fall as she bit her lips. The three of them looking at each other in search for an answer for what to do, silently deciding whether they should scape. 

Sebastian laughed, delighted with the chance meeting. “And you’re King John.” He pointed his attention back at him, the only member in the group he had never met before. However, the long interviews on the television —not to mention the multiple posters of his face plastered all across the Isle— were enough to give him the clues he needed to figure it out. “E. is gonna love this.” He commented, stuffing his big fists inside the pockets of his trousers. 

“Just fuck off.” Lestrade said, dragging John away without looking back. Sure that Irene would have followed them. Leaving the strong figure to go and tell E. about them if he wished. Now more than ever they needed to use their time wisely, and get Sherlock to come back with them before E. and her pirate crew thought of attacking them.

“Shouldn’t we worry about-” The king started asking, staring at the bleak alley were Sebastian was tracking his short legs away, ready to bring the wrath of Sherlock’s enemy on them if they weren’t careful.

“Just walk.” Greg muttered, a frustrated tone lacing his words as they moved swiftly through the back streets.

“But what do we do if we see her?” John insisted, rearranging the hat on his head now that he couldn’t anxiously run his hands through his hair as he always did.

“Ignore her. Let’s go.” Irene waved off, grabbing the sleeve of his borrowed jacket and leading him along until they found themselves in front of some wooden walls,surrounding a clearing filled with abandoned furniture. Lestrade reached out his hand to a metal fence and lowered down a hidden flight of metal stairs.

“Here,” Greg pointed at the steps. “All the way up.” He said, indicating where he was sure to find the stroppy rebel. John looked at them in gratitude and started up in those stairs. He paused at number four and turned around, “Alright, wish me luck.” He said, his hands still shaking and his chest feeling as if something heavy had been placed on it. Irene and Greg nodded at him, smiling in encouragement. They waited until he was almost all the way up to turn to each other and exchange worried glances.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The place was not exactly what John had expected. The chaos and the paint, he had anticipated, but the furniture and the almost —not really— _‘homely’_ arrangement of it came as a surprise. Sure, the room was an outrageous assault on the senses —including the sense of smell— but he could actually see Sherlock hanging out here, eating, and sleeping, and brushing his teeth; instead of the other-worldly creature he sometimes appeared to be. The blonde softly smiled thinking about it.

Several _‘decorations’_ were painted over the walls, and a few bullets were still lodged on the holes made to the plaster. He raked his sight over the place, stopping when he spotted a tall figure, murmuring something to a skull that John could only hope was not human and with his back turned to him. John felt the contents of his meagre dinner complain inside his stomach at the sight. Sherlock looked _disappointed_.

“At least I don’t see a picture of me with horns and missing teeth.” The king said, and Sherlock jumped and turned around so fast he almost tripped off the platform on which he was standing. John was not in the mood to enjoy the fact of finally having startled him.

“John.” Sherlock uttered, his gaze multicoloured as he stared at him in amazement and confusion. He was wearing the long leather coat again, looking like a heart attack in purple curls. The rebel sighed, but as John took two hesitant steps towards him, he halted his progress with a gesture. So the blonde stayed rooted to the spot, swaying lightly in worry.

“I’m so sorry about our fight.” John said, “It was all my fault.” Honesty was laced around every single word, willing the other to believe him. He looked at the other intensely, not missing the subtle changes in the other’s distressed expression. “Please, come home with me.” He pleaded, presenting his ring back to him.

Sherlock moved. He stepped off the ledge and tossed the skull aside as he took severalsteps closer to him. “I _am_ home.” He stated, making the same face he made al those moon-cycles ago on their first date.

“Are you?” John asked, the frown over his face deepening, as he kept his arm stretched, holding the ring out to him. 

The violet-haired boy twisted his gaze as he shuffled, inhaling dismissively just before talking. “Obviously.” He said, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. As if he were not tearing John’s universe apart, just but uttering it.

The blonde felt moisture gather in his eyes, but managed to blink it away swiftly. “I brought the car,” He said instead, smiling sadly at the other, hoping he could fix this just by wearing down on Sherlock’s defences. “It’s a sweet ride.” He commented, but his attempt had proven futile when the rebel’s scowl stayed etched in place.

“Just don’t.” He said, as he shook his head. The shirt he wore accentuating the way his thin chest was shifting with his rapid breathing. “You’re an idiot if you think I can change.” The words came quickly, as he took a counter step back. Recoiling. “I can’t.”

“And I think you already have.” Was John’s fervent answer, as he tried his damndestnot to reach out and touch him. Sherlock’s eyes were turning shiny too. “Fine, then I’ll change.” John offered. “Have more fun,” He said with a bitter smile over his face.Proposing anything that would get the other to just leave with him. “Blow off some of my responsibili-”

“No!” The silver-gazed raised his voice, cutting him off and speaking in that authoritative voice he possessed. “That is exactly what I’m talking about!” His pale hands waving at his sides.

“Do you remember my coronation?” John said, startling the other once more and putting a cap on his steam. “All the people you saved from Moriarty?” He reminded, his compact hands curling up as he saw images of those moments, Sherlock defending them all from the monsters.

The rebel’s face of surprise turned into a frustrated grimace. “And you remember who brought him there in the first place?” He asked. “And what I did to him?” His lips started trembling, but his words still carried that disgusted poison he failed to shake away. “You may have awful memory but it turns out I’m incapable of saving something without destroying something else.” He said, and John grew tired of hearing him speak that way about himself by the minute; realising what Sherlock believed hurt him almost physically, as if it were directed at him. “It’s only a matter of time before I do something so messed up that not only does the kingdom turn on me, but they turn on you!” Sherlock insisted.

John grabbed the hand pointing at him and held it. “Why are you giving up so easily?” He demanded, as he placed the shiny ring on the other’s stretched palm. “The people love you.” The blonde said. “ _I_ love you.” Sherlock stared at him heart-broken, while his grey eyes did their best to hide the true emotions behind them. “Don’t you?” John asked, desperate to get an answer.

“I’m a high functioning socio-” The other recited, more of a reflex than an actual conscious decision to say so. His eyes were now closed and he had started to pull his hand away so John would release him, which the blue-eyed did not plan to do.

“No.” John stated. “That’s bollocks, and you know it!” The royal exclaimed, feeling heat travel from his neck into his flushed face. Anger and helplessness combining to create the most horrid of sensations.

The violet-haired boy opened his eyes to look at him, just to have his attention drawn by the glinting band between them. He picked it up delicately and smiled as he examined it, the lines of despair inside John’s chest dissipating a bit at the sight; only to be brought back tenfold as Sherlock’s expression turned again and he hastily placed the ring inside the blonde’s hand once more. “I have to take myself out of the picture.” He said, his voice definitely breaking despite the stoicism in his face.

“Sherlock, no,” John approached even further, but the rebel was already retreating away, placing a hand over his chest to stop him. “Please.” He said, as Sherlock took several steps back. 

“John, I can’t.” He said, turning around and stepping over the platform again. “You should go.” The nonchalant tone over his voice not fooling either of them. When John didn’t move, he twisted around and stared at him with red-rimmed eyes. “John, please do this for me.” He said. “Just go.” The blonde stared at him for a few more seconds, willing the tears not to fall from his eyes. When he turned around and started walking away he heard Sherlock let out a breath, but he didn’t dare to turn back to see what it was, he kept going until he reached the stairs and climbed down. 

The sight of two pairs of hopeful eyes only made John’s heart sink lower. “So?”Irene asked. “Where’s Sherlock?” The blonde descended the stairs with a hunched back, ignoring his friends’ glances.

“He’s not coming back.” He said.

“What?” Greg demanded, his tall figure following after him as the royal leaned over a support beam.

“I’ll talk to him.” Irene assured, stepping across the metal gate to grab the pipe that she knew would carry the sound over to the boy upstairs. “Sherlock?” She asked, as John kicked off the wood behind him and started walking. “It’s Irene.” The girl knew the rebel was completely aware of who exactly it was, and by trying to placate him she would definitely annoy him even further, but sometimes Sherlock responded to careful wording. “Let me just talk to you for a second.” She said.

And sometimes he didn’t. “Piss off!” Was the yell that traveled back into their ears. Making the both of them stand back in defeat.

As the girl sighed, Greg placed a hand over her arm and shook it. “Let’s give him a couple of hours to cool off.” He offered, ready to sit and wait for the other to possibly come around and get back to them. Just as he was approaching the stairs to take a seat Irene’s eyes widened and she began moving her body around, angling out and walking towards different directions only to retreat back after a few steps. Searching for something.

“Greg,” Irene said, with unmasked panic in her voice. “Where is John?”.

 

 

 

 


	6. Chapter 5: Destruction Before Bargain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're at the middle of this story. 
> 
> If you liked the chapter, let me know what you think in the comments below.

 

[ ](https://ibb.co/7J7jhy5)

 

   

 

 

> Destruction is the deliberate action or process  
>  of causing so much damage to some thing or  
>  concept that it no longer exists or cannot be  
>  _ repaired, no matter how much the victims  
>  _ go out of their way to attempt it.

 

 

“ John?” Greg and Irene called, desperately looking around to try and spot him; but the royal was nowhere to be found. The alley was packed with hanging rags and forgotten items, but no sight of John anywhere. The both of them exchanged worried looks, calling out again into the empty space.

At the far distance of the narrow passage appeared a silhouette, slowly making its way towards them. “John!” Greg yelled to the swaying figure and sighed.

“John, don’t scare us like that.” Irene ordered, words painted with relief as she waited for the man to come closer so she could smack him for wandering off. However, when the figure crossed into the light, his hair was not blonde and he was definitely not the king.

“Don’t scare you?” He asked, a big mocking grin splitting his expression. “But that’s my speciality.” He said, as he cocked his head to the side and stared at them both with mischief in his green eyes.

“Victor.” The word in Irene’s lips sounded like hate made flesh. She took a step forward, ready to force an answer out of the other.

“What did you do with John?” Greg demanded, his fingers inside the gloves already curling up into outraged fists. The frown of animosity deepening in the face of the other’s completely not bothered expression.

“Oh,” Victor said, while cheerfully gesturing towards where John had been lost to thin air. “We took him.” He admitted, the same way one would recount an exciting story to their closest friends. Greg, however, was ready to punch him in the jaw. “Mhm yeah.” The other assured, nodding his ginger-topped head at them both all while smiling innocently. “And if you want to see him again, have Sherlock come to the bait shop tonight.” Victor pointed in the direction of where their friend’s _‘secret’_ hideout was and moved smoothly closer in his long red coat. “ _Alone._ ” He said and Irene subtly looked at Lestrade, the two of them breathing slowly, as the man in front of them laughed in delight. “ _E._ wants a little visit.” Victor explained, clearly enjoying their expressions.

Greg pursed his lips and shook his fists in an obvious attempt not to strangle the punk right then and there. “Aw, Greg.” Victor continued, pouting insincerely at him right before his mouth broke out on a big grin. “Seems like you’ve lost your touch.” He mocked.

“Hey!” Lestrade pitched himself forwards, letting go to attack the prick that had captured their friend and now wanted to rope Sherlock back into his antics once more. Irene stopped him before he could make contact, figuring avoiding a physical altercation —no matter how much she wished to see Victor’s teeth scattered all over the floor— would be the smartest course of action for John for as long as they had him. “Ooh!” The other let out and laughed, directing his disinterested gaze over them as he graced them with an expression of disappointment. Irene held onto Lestrade’s shoulder to ensure he was not going to try a second time, yet her grip slacked with every word uttered.

Now that his purpose was served, Victor spared them one more glance before turning around slowly. Irene and Greg let out a breath when they saw him slinking away into the darkness as he actually _whistled_.

 

 

* * *

 

 

“You morons!” Was Sherlock’s response once Greg and Irene hesitantly conveyed to him the news of John’s kidnapping. The boy’s eyes had narrowed and the silver irises had swirled into lime green so fleetingly that once the emotion was processed, and the rebel was yelling at them, all colour was gone, and they were back to their mercury nature. “This never would have happened if you idiots hadn’t brought him here!” he exclaimed. 

The other two miscreants had the sense to at least look chagrinned. “You know John,” Irene said softly; taking a step closer in apology, while Greg hung back with crossed arms and a downturned mouth. “He was gonna come anyway,” she continued. Attempting to appeal to the rational mind of the rebel. Unfortunately, Sherlock didn’t exactly feel like being talked into accepting John’s danger as _‘logical’_.He pursed his lips in frustration at their efforts. “We just wanted to protect him.” 

Both, Irene and Greg jumped back at the great scoff that came out of the violet haired boy. “Well, thank the underworlds that you were there, then,” he said. His characteristic sardonic tone present as he walked to the old, ratty, grey couch and grabbed his discarded leather coat.

“Yeah, fine.” Greg admitted, throwing his hands in the air. “We completely blew it,”he said, taking on that resigned stance as Irene glared daggers at his formidable form. Clearly not backing down from her opinion that this disaster was still better than what would have happened if John had come alone. In the rebel’s opinion, John shouldn’t had come there at all, he should have stayed safe in his castle where he belonged and Sherlock would have remained in the realm of tricks and lies. He had no right or reason to come there looking uncomfortably breathtaking in _‘normal’_ new clothes and demanding Sherlock’s affections; as if he didn’t already have them. “So what are we gonna do?” Lestrade asked, turning hopeful eyes to the genius strategist of the group.

The violet haired boy rolled his eyes and stated. “ _‘We’_ are not doing anything,” he stressed as he gestured to those present. He flung his coat over his shoulders and turned up the high collar. “If a game is what E. wants, then a game we’ll play.” The assurance did nothing to ease the other’s troubled faces, instead deepening their frowns as Sherlock arched an eyebrow at them. “I’ll come back when I get John,” he said. “And then you’ll leave this island without me.”

“Whoa, what!?” Lestrade exclaimed. His heavy boots stomping as he rushed to him, ready to demand an explanation, an assurance of mental sanity, anything that would make sense of the ideas he just uttered. “You’ll still need to go through Victor and his wharf rats,” he said, while Sherlock just scoffed at the mention of the ginger’s name. He had no patience for him or anything that wasn’t getting John back and away from there. Specially _that_ idiot.

“Yeah, and you can’t use your magic anymore.” Irene added, placing her slender hands on her waist and looking at him as if gearing up to fight him if needed. “You’re gonna need us.” The words she said made the rebel pause and regard them both; standing there, pleading to aid him in the confrontation ahead, but this had already gone too far out of control to back down. 

His anger dissipated somewhat, even if the frustration remained seared inside his bones. “Oh, please,” he uttered instead, waving a hand and giving them an uninterested look. “I’ve never needed magic to beat them,” he said, and that was just the truth. “And if everything else fails, there’s always a big bag of stinky shrimps in handy, for some reason.” Which had actually been his preferred method with dealing with E. and her oceanic crew for quite some time. He turned around and grinned mischievously, somewhat thrilled to embrace his impish ability in full force once more in order to fix everything. Because apparently, nothing good ever came out of him trying to do good. 

“Sherlock, come off it,” Greg said to the silver-gazed smirking inside a black coat. Confused and untrusting of the sudden excitement radiating off the rebel. His eyes narrowed at the other’s expression as Irene exchanged glances with him. The three of them had dived in headfirst into danger multiple times together, but as unstable the situation —mainly Sherlock— was, they clearly were apprehensive of taking any of this lightly as they had in the past. The violet-haired boy refused to let them psych him out of the mindset.

“She said to come alone,” he argued, as he put on his gloves and shrugged innocently at Greg when he stared at him sceptically. Lestrade crossed his arms and leaned back, an expression of _‘no bullshit’_ painted over his face. Sherlock fought hard not to show giddiness at the familiar dynamic. Greg turned then to the girl, expecting her to agree with him on how ridiculous the notion was.

“She did say,” Irene reluctantly offered. Only to receive a disbelieving scoff from Lestrade as he threw his hands in the air from frustration, the mad boy near the door beamed at them in triumph. 

“Well, I know one thing,” The older boy said. He resigned to the will of the madman and sighed as he let himself fall on the ratty couch. “I’m not going anywhere.” He crossed his legs over the small table in front of him and stared at Sherlock in expectation.

“We’ll be here when you two get back.” The indigo-haired assured as she placed a hand over Sherlock’s arm. The other nodded and stepped away. Irene and Greg stared at him in worry as he retreated.

He turned and made for the stairs, only to stop midway and twirl around. “If criminals come in here to steal all my possessions, at least _try_ to stop them this time,” he commented. “Losing all of my things too would be _terribly_ inconvenient.” With a devious smile he turned once again and swayed away, leaving behind the displeased faces of his companions.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The bait shop looked even worse than Sherlock remembered it. Of course, he had no long lost love for the place, but its chipped out paint, and the smell of sea life that seemed ingrained to the walls gave him even more reasons to make sure he took as little time as possible. The individuals that he was likely to encounter there didn’t help the situation.

He pushed the wooden, rotten swinging doors, and placed one foot in the establishment, the inside equally as disappointing as the outside was. The several tables were crammed with idiots and low-rate criminals, and the bar hosted the most insufferable characters —the ones likely to find themselves the world’s lost wonder. Sherlock pursed his lips in disgust and placed his pale hands inside his pockets to avoid unwanted contact.

The rebel took a step forward, kicking away a stray bucket filled with junk and smirked when he saw E. turn around and regard him. “I’m back.” He stated casually, while he approached the bar. His shoulders high and his haughty face framed by the vibrant purple curls on top of his head. Several of the costumers stopped and twisted around to decipher the threat at their door.

Sebastian rose from his stool at the end of the bar and hurried to him; clearly eager for a confrontation. “Loser, party of one.” He came to stand before him, grinning and showing his crooked teeth, as if he believed that would scare Sherlock off. “Right this way please.” He said, but the boy just raised an amused eyebrow and ignored him.

Victor also made his way from behind the counter and kicked a chair for him to take a seat. Sherlock swiftly caught it before it made impact and turned it around. He eyed his surroundings as he sat down backwards. The people watching him were intrigued, none of them believing the nightmare that was _‘Holmes, the youngest’_ walked among them once more. The rags and nets hanging low from the ceiling had the rebel wondering how anyone could consume anything in such a place; even for the island it was bad. “Place’s still rubbish.” He commented.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Sebastian added, placing a hand over his heart in demonstration. “We’re down a butler today, _fairy._ ” The insult was way past over used when it came to Wilkes’ opinions about his person and his heritage. Sherlock rolled his eyes at the lack of imagination and stood up. The other made to take a step away just before catching himself and staying rooted to his defiance. The violet-haired boy noticed as he stared down at him, and presented a satisfied smirk; if the idiots of The Isle wanted to think, even for a second, that his status as half-fae was in any way a disadvantage, they were even more stupid than he gave them credit for. 

Sherlock spotted the girl he had come to see again. Standing rigid in the middle of the room, as both her arms hung limply at her sides. Her bright teal hair cascaded over most of her heart-shaped face, but her pale ocean eyes stared at him as daggers. Piercing right through his visible flesh and into the guts of his very soul. Sherlock couldn’t remember a moment when she hadn’t looked at him as if he were the singular, most difficult enigma of the whole universe. “Where is he?” He demanded. 

Without even moving a muscle, her mouth and eyes shifted; the only things appearingto possess any life amidst the inanimate carcass surrounding them. “I’ve been waiting for you.” She muttered to the dead silence of the room, all present were watching with rapt attention now.

“I’m so flattered that you missed me.” Sherlock commented. “I haven’t given you a thought since I left.” Victor and Seb, who were slinking about around them, looked mortally offended. Arrogantly expecting they would certainly had to be as impactful to him as he apparently was for their captain. However, the girl’s expression didn’t change, her stare stayed focused and her body locked out of motion. 

Sherlock placed his weight on the balls of his feet, awaiting for the backlash that was sure to come by the morons who comprised her crew. “Yeah,” Victor was the first to respond. “You’ve got your perfect little life, don’t you?” His expression transforming from outrage to casual amusement, while he sized him up and down —as he always did— and smiled. “Doesn’t he have the perfect little life?” The red-haired asked to the crowd, turning around fully with his arms in the air as the agreements came tumbling down from the lips of the envious customers. Victor basking charmingly with them as he returned his focus on him, looking triumphant.

Sherlock turned his head to avoid looking at the angular, smiling jaw; annoyance seeping through his bones as he thought about the reality of his situation. He wouldn’t describe his life anywhere near perfect; and sometimes he wondered whether if knowing Auradon and all it conveyed had been more destructive than positive to his short villainous life. There were a few things he would never wish to delete, but the majority of them were filled with a deep sensation of being completely outside his nature. And even now, being back where he was supposed to belong, still felt like an ill-fitting suit. The silver-gazed boy squeezed the sensation down and channeled his determination where needed. Vulnerability enraged him like nothing else ever could and he was not about to showcase it to them.

“And we’re 13 cycles into a shit strike.” Sebastian exclaimed, rounding around E. and bemoaning to the entirety of the universe, it seemed. “Me!” He said, as his arms waved. “The rightful Lord of Millest Abbey and-”

The girl darted her head to her side, her severe eyes landing over Seb quickly. He took note of them and ceased his rant immediately; resulting in Sherlock feeling grateful to E. for the first, and plausibly the last time in his existence. Well, at least Auradon was not the _only_ place riddled with idiots. 

“If you have some sort of score to settle with me, game on!” The violet-haired boy addressed the leader once more. Knowing fully well what said score might be. Only the hundreds of different ways he had ever crushed her plans or attempted to humiliate her in the past. The fact of her being older and smarter than him was of no consequence for the boy to betray her multiple times. “I see no need to bring John into this.” He commented, hoping to get things back exactly as they were before his stupid friends had brought John there and messed the whole situation around. As Sherlock nonchalantly regarded those at his sides he added: “And get the dork of Millest Abbey away from me too.” 

Wilkes face grew red from anger, and his uncovered arms flexed into battle stance. However, he stayed put, not wanting to act out against his leader’s orders. E. payed him no mind and observed Sherlock; said boy just leaned back and arched an eyebrow at her staring. “Look at me.” She said, tilting her head as her teal eyes made sure he did as she asked.

The rebel frowned, caught off-guard by the sudden change of direction. He shifted his weight between his feet but managed to conceal his confusion as he deliberatelyschooled his face enough to squint at her. “Wha-”

“You know already.” The other interrupted, staring at him as if he were just a foolish child, lost in the ways of the world. “ _Look_ at me.” She ordered, and Sherlock felt compelled to oblige, not because he was susceptible to be roped in by her so called _‘siren song’_ , but because he truly couldn’t fathom the idea why she wanted it, and what she hoped he would find.

“I am.” He said, raking his eyes over her form but finding nothing out of the norm.The deductions floating around her not conveying anything new. Her white, baggy clothes just as contrasting as usual, and her high cheekbones lent him no clues to the puzzle. 

“You can’t see it, can you?” E. commented, a sideways smile breaking into her face, but never reaching the rest of her expression. She appeared satisfied of her assessment of unknown markers for his brain power. “You try and try, and you can’t see it.” She said, and shame flooded the violet-haired boy at having no idea what she meant. Several of those present chuckled softly, exchanging quiet comments about him, but Sherlock ignored all of them; now more than ever he needed to focus on the real target, and that was getting John to walk away from this shop of tedium with him.

“Here’s the game,” The girl stated, her tone lilting a bit as her faux excitement won over her shallow and empty emotions. Her eyebrows raising in a stunted, practiced way; as if she were mimicking the expressions instead of feeling them.

“Just like your father, always a catch.” Sherlock said. Nonchalance once more over his persona. He stuffed his hands back into the coat’s pockets and stared in indifference. He felt Victor and Seb silently approach him from each side, caging him in as warning. Mentioning any sort of familial members was a sure way to get into the girl’s dreaded black list, demanding caution from anyone who came to know her; as she was always circumventing around talk of her nonexistent blood relatives; except for the father that had abandoned her and disappeared into thin air. Sherlock didn’t particularly cared for caution, however.

“I want to see how your mind works, Sherlock.” She said, moving her feet towards him. “How _you_ work.” Her voice dissecting him already. If the rebel wasn’t so helpless in his motivation, he would still be intrigued enough to proceed. The leaps of logic she took a mystery he wanted to unravel. “I’ll ask you something and if you are right, the king is free to go.”

Murmurs around the bait shop grew louder, as they clearly believed it was an unfair bargain. Sherlock felt the compulsion to agree with them “Just like that?” He asked, sceptical of the ease in which she was ready to relinquish her only leverage. The silver-gaze sensed a trap, to which he unfortunately would have to step if he hoped to get the blonde back. Trap, or no trap; he was screwed when it came to John Watson.

“Just like that.” She confirmed, both of her men smirking next to him, as Sherlock nodded. His fringe of purple locks bouncing over his forehead. The boy smiled while his eyes shined in the low lighting, his delight for the game apparent over his expression. Letting hysteria transform him from smart to reckless. “You want to know what I get if I win?” She asked, watching his reaction closely.

“You can go ahead and keep waiting for that too.” Sherlock responded. His back straight and his slender form towering over the others despite being shorter than one of them.

“Interesting.” E. said. “Moriarty thought he had things all sewn up, too.” The boy blinked, frowning as he swallowed past the emotion. “Of course, you took care of that.” She continued, aiming for a telling response as she detailed insecurities he wanted to conceal. “Was it different for you? To condemn someone who _‘deserved it’_?” Stepping on every crack of his confidence, even if no one would probably realise it. Except for her. If Moriarty deserved what he had done to him, then what price would he be required to pay when the time came? “Why is it different when it’s someone innocent?” She asked conversationally, her stunted hand gestures conveying her utter confusion in what common creatures deemed as emotions. “Feels the same to me.” Much as Sherlock liked his feelings not to exist, nobody knew whether E. actually _had_ any beside contempt and curiosity. 

Sherlock stepped forward, not allowing them to box him in any longer. He came to stand directly before her and he studied her as much as her ocean eyes were vivisecting him. “Your boyfriend John of House Watson.” She commented with recognition in her voice, as if the very image of the king were imprinted in the other’s irises. Victor scoffed at the mention of the royal, causing several others to exchange rude comments about him in discomfort too. “You disobey all his orders yet you appear desperate to have him back. Quite confusing.” E. said, as the rebel stored every word inside different chambers in his Mind Palace. He was aware that he had breached all the agreements he had made to John for his trespasses, —including the one about remaining on the kingdom under his supervision— but he refused to let her get inside his brain as Moriarty had. She may be able to control even the strongest of villains, even going as far as convincing a low-rate criminal to murder his own family and then himself just with a few telling sentences; however, Sherlock seemed to be continuously immune to her antics since he was very young, and he planned on staying that way. The rebel arched an eyebrow and glanced around him, perceiving the anticipation in the room. The food on their plates laid forgotten over the counters —which was possibly for the best for anyone, according to Sherlock— as the customers enjoyed the showdown with interest. Sebastian puffed out his chest, expecting a victory that hadn’t arrived yet —the rebel was to make sure he didn’t get the satisfaction— and Victor stared straight at his face, as if attempting to read how to reap personal benefit from the situation.

“You can continue to act like a prince.” E. continued, while his own voice could be heard in the distance, being played by an old radio at the back of the shop. Half-heartedly answering several interview questions, and attempting to sound as polite as he was capable. “But you are not fooling anyone. Just like you didn’t when we were children.” She said. “You can place a golden crown on a villain, but you’re still a villain.” The truth of her statement stung, the rebel felt his jaw clench up and his cheeks grow warm in rage. His eyes slowly glowing into bright green. 

“Advanced in evolution.” Was her final conclusion. Always believing selfishness to be the ultimate improvement in human nature.

“And you can slap a pirate title on, but you’re still _‘shrimpy’_.” He retorted. Beaming as he heard several gasps created behind him.

E. appeared almost angry for a moment, but her features went back to curious quite quickly. “My question is:” She leaned forward. “How did you get out of _the dragon’s_ spell?” 

Sherlock blinked in surprise. The green in his eyes gone as he was left stumbling for an answer. “I-” He said, but was utterly unable to finish.

After the shock of his terrible loss had been processed, the panic started creeping in as Victor and Sebastian laughed along with the several other spectators. “If you want to save your king, you’ll bring me Lady Hudson’s wand to my ship tomorrow at noon, sharp.” She smiled, as she turned around to leave him. Her bright wavy locks fanning out behind her.

The frustration Sherlock felt at himself for having underestimated her was chocking his neck as he retreated to the exit. Staring defiantly at anyone who dared to look his way. Enraged and slighted. 

A hand caught his shoulder, Victor’s smiling face appeared next to him, ready to demand his attention. “If you blab,” He said. “You can kiss your baby goodbye.” Sherlock glared at him sideways, hatred inside his gaze, not even wanting to turn around and regard him fully. The ginger smirked and blew a kiss at him before walking away as if they’d won.

If they thought, for one second, that they could take John Watson away from him and live to tell the tale, then they clearly didn’t know him at all.

 

 

* * *

 

 

“There’s no way, we’re gonna give that sea witch the wand!” Irene bemoaned. Pacing back and forth in Sherlock’s hideout as said boy was sitting on the couch, frantically perusing his book of spells for inspiration while Greg watched from a chair at the other side of the room. “We can’t just let her destroy the realm.” She said, as she came to a stop and looked at both of them in expectation.

“The realm?” Sherlock snarled, his glinting eyes narrowing in the deep darkness coming from outside the small skylights on the ceiling. The defeat was rubbing him raw, on top of John being kidnapped, _and_ the worst week of his life. “You think I care about the realm?” He asked, as Greg stared at him with shock in his gaze and nodded. 

“If she doesn’t get the wand, John is toast, guys.” Lestrade added, slapping his own tights in defeat, his worry seeping into the room and practically smacking the violet-haired boy in the face. Sherlock wasn’t an idiot, and he wasn’t so far down to not recognise reality when he heard it. He may be on the verge of a breakdown, but he wasn’t so blind as to not believe the terrible danger that surrounded the king. Hearing Greg say it, however, didn’t help him in any way.

“Right, so we’re going give E. of all people, the wand.” Irene refuted, crossing her pale arms over her chest and biting on both her lips; she looked ready to attack whoever was closest, and the rebel wasn’t sure who out of them —her or himself— would crack first. “We might as well have let Moriarty have it.” She commented, and Sherlock’s fingers tightened to the book at the mention of that name, the horror still following him like a black cloud over his shoulders. Not to mention the threat he was slowly unraveling. “She will destroy Auradon.” She looked down at his seated form and raised her eyebrows, practically tapping her foot waiting for them to agree with her. But every single cell inside the silver-gazed body screamed at him not to.

“And I would sacrifice each and every one of them for him.” He confessed, as he diverted his eyes to the pages once more. Ignoring the expressions the other two must have been giving him at his declaration. He was aware of how it sounded, because that is _exactly_ how he meant it. He had not a care whether if it was wrong, and he wasproving right all those cynics —including himself— that always said he was not going to last in his position. He would trade places with John himself if he had the chance, and he supposed that, above everything else, was what was ultimately putting all the others in danger.

“John will not like that.” The girl said finally, breaching the silence as her expression towards him softened and her mouth relaxed. The rebel felt Lestrade looking at him as his cheeks flared up with warmth.

“Well, he’s not here to have a say, is he?” He retorted, all the venom dripping from the sentence not directed to a specific target and landing on them all instead. E. had John and the stupid spell book didn’t contain one single thing that could aid him in changing such situation. 

“Do we have another choice?” Greg stood up and opened his arms, attempting to let them all think of an alternative, even if their efforts proved futile. The silence stretched on as the three of them stared defiantly at one another in turns, awkwardness and discomfort growing every second the room remained quiet.

“Apparently not.” Sherlock concluded, the useless book still clutched in his grip. He stood up too and breathed deeply, knowing that even the notion of putting the whole kingdom in jeopardy for one man —even if he was the right man— was in every way the worst he could possibly do to anyone, —specially John— who regarded the realm as priority over everything else. Thankfully for his selfish desires, Sherlock had decided earlier to stop his laughable attempts at being moral. “Once she has it,” He began, already drawing out a map of the plan they could execute. “We’ll get John out quickly, and _then_ we move to retrieve the wand.” He stressed, as the others nodded in resignation. They may not like it, but for lack of other course of action, they would follow along, and at least try to contain the damage. 

It was probably a useless precaution, with E. in charge of the most powerful magic in the realms, and her need to aid humanity to _evolve_ , they might just kiss Auradon goodbye. He remembered what he had felt when he touched the wand, that raw magic surging inside him; making its way through his body as if he were merely a vessel, and judging by the brightness of her hair she would be able to pick it up and use it with no problem. The pull that wand had over the hand of its ‘master’ was so akin to _hell sorcery_ , that the rebel found himself having trouble putting it into words. As soon as you made contact it clicked, and nobody who hadn’t experienced it could ever anticipate the difference.

At that his brain halted, and fired up in a greater direction, sparks burning inside it as a new alternative was revealed. He opened his eyes surprised; not even aware he had closed them in the first place, and stared at the others’ frowning expression with new found mirth.

“We’ll need a diversion.” He declared, Irene took a step back and placed her hands over her hips when she noticed the turn in his disposition. The older boy regarded them both as he recognised an idea inside the mercurial eyes of his madman of a friend. Sending him into a state of hesitant excitement even if he didn’t know what the other was planning.

“Smoke bombs!” Irene exclaimed, the dark blue bun on top of her head coming loose with each moment of adversity they experienced, but now she had a glimmer of hope on her red lipped smile.

“Brilliant. That could work.” Sherlock pointed as he frantically searched inside the book for something, now knowing exactly what he needed. “I’ll get the chemicals.” He commented as he grabbed a piece of paper and pen and quickly scrawled a few sentences over it. 

“I’ll stay here and help.” The girl offered. She moved her head aside in an obvious attempt to see what he was writing.

“I can’t leave the Isle to get to my brother. E. would know.” The violet-haired boy stated disinterestedly, his focus solely on the white paper under his fingers. “So Lestrade, I’m afraid that privilege is now yours.” He said once he had stood up and now presented the folded note for Greg to take. The other reached one strong arm to him and snatched it, confused at how a few lines could ever tip the balance over to their favour.

“And we cannot tell the adults,” Irene added; with which Sherlock agreed wholeheartedly. The addition of John’s parents and Lady Hudson would probably just make the situation more dire than it already was. “You know what they did last time.” She said, while the three of them shivered at the mere thought.

“Decapitated his mother, and banished everyone else into a magic prison?” Greg offered. “Got it.” The condescending tone was not much appreciated by the girl, but they appeared so relieved that Sherlock had a scheme planned that she let it slide with a shrug.

“Tell Mycroft to call Molly, and and tell her I need her.” He said, “Give her these instructions for the wand, they’ll know what to do.” The rebel patted the note as he stressed his intentions. Making sure the crucial step of the plan would not be missed. 

“Molly?” Greg asked, trying to mask his surprise with hard eyes. Sherlock could see right through the act, of course, and he doubted Irene was fooled too; he failed to know why Lestrade even bothered.

“You can’t touch it, remember?” The rebel reminded, gesturing to his very human, very _mortal_ form and smiled. “You’d get fried by the magic.” _‘And ruin my plan in the process’_ Sherlock thought. “Fancy giving it a go?” He said as he arched an eyebrow, Greg swallowed audibly and raised his hands in surrender.

“Okay, no.” He said, to which the violet-haired boy beamed and nodded.

“You meet us at Pirate’s bay not later than noon with the wand.” Irene added, patting his exposed shoulder in encouragement and good fortune. She took a step back and arranged her blue hair behind her ears. Sherlock turned up his collar once more and took a deep breath.

“Okay, before noon.” Greg nodded, focusing and gearing up for the task as he started walking. “Oh, and sick hair by the way.” He said approvingly to the rebel when he passed him, with a hand reaching towards his bright purple locks and messing them up. He laughed at Sherlock’s offended expression and proceeded retreating towards the staircase.

“And losing-” Sherlock called back, just before they lost sight of each other. “Not an option.” He commanded, and Irene nodded at him in silent agreement. The air in the room much clearer with a plan of action in motion. 

“The Game is on!” The violet-haired exclaimed, placing his spell book inside his coat pocket and guiding the girl out of the room too. Confident his plan would gain them victory, and even if it didn’t and E. somehow found a way to break down the barrier, at least John would be there with them to pick up the pieces.

 

 

* * *

 

 

John struggled to open his eyes. Feeling as if lead had been attached to his eyelids without his consent. His hands were somehow restricted, and he was placed with his bum resting over something hard. As he regained consciousness, images of several men struggling to keep him still and down came tumbling into his mind. _Great. He had been captured._

When his sight was able to adjust to the poor lighting surrounding him, he could make out a few details, the rotting walls, the loud sound of waves crashing against the surface, and somehow almost everything seemed to be made out of wood. He tried to get up but he couldn’t break free with his hands tied behind his back around a wood beam. 

“Your majesty is finally awake.” A voice said to his left, and John raised his head to squint at the stranger above him. His features were obscured by a pirate’s hat, but you could almost hear the smile in his words. “The king of the United Kingdom of Auradon!” He exclaimed, making John press his lips together in annoyance. The other stepped closer and smirked. The line of his nose scrunching up in clear disgust. “I expected more, honestly.” He said, to which the royal just glared.

“And who are you?” John demanded, not particularly in the mood of being mocked by some arsehole, specially not while his hands were chaffing from the rope; and he was quite sure someone had mildly sprained his shoulder. 

“No, no, no.” The man responded with a grin, the green in his eyes deepening with the shadows painted by the oil lamp above them, his expression laden with amusement. “No questions.” He said as he scratched his orange beard and reached out his hand to John. The blonde attempted to move away, but he was too restricted in motion to achieve any significant distance. The man reached into the inside pocket of John’s —actually Lestrade’s— leather jacket and laughed when his fingers touched that for which he was looking. “She just sent me here for this.” He said, as he flipped the King’s Ring on his hand. 

“If she needed money, she could’ve just asked.” John commented, not one to back down against a trouble maker like whoever the man in front of him was. He had dealt with a bored Sherlock for moon-cycles, few things were actually scary after _that_.

The other, however, appeared between annoyed and smug, he straightened up and flounced around in a dark red coat. “She doesn’t need money.” He said, “Not when your boyfriend is going to give her Hudson’s wand in exchange for you.”

After those words were uttered, John’s attention focused; so much he barely registered the amused snort the ginger let out. If they were planning to make a bargain with Sherlock, then he could truly understand why the violet-haired boy called most of The Isle’s inhabitants idiots beyond help. It was the king’s turn to chuckle. “Well, you _really_ are wasting your time then.” He said, as the other halted his pacing and turned around to regard him intensely. “He won’t do that.” John explained, beaming at the revelation of their main course of attack. Being tied up didn’t scare him —not enough to forgo his principles, at least— he was not foolish enough to underestimate the ones who had kidnapped him, but even if this ended up with great peril to his own life, he was certain Sherlock would never bargain the kingdom away for one man, specially not him.

The man with the ginger beard laughed in derision; making John apprehensive about what he could have possibly missed. The pirate stood back and grinned with perfectly white teeth. “He already accepted.” He commented, and John didn’t need a mirror to know that his face had fallen. “So _clearly_ ,” He said. “You don’t know Sherlock as well as you think.” That couldn’t be true. It didn’t sit well in his stomach. Sherlock had saved them all from Moriarty, even going as far as casting a spell over his own self —that from which he didn’t know he would manage to get out— in order to prevent someone else, someone _cruel_ , from getting the wand. That he would betray John’s priorities so carelessly was proving hard to swallow and believe. Suddenly the ropes tying him up felt more constrictive by the knowledge.

“Don’t be mad,” Said the pirate, probably rejoicing in the expression he must be portraying. “Pretty soon it won’t matter.” With that he turned around and climbed the stairs to the deck. Leaving John behind to wrestle with the information into denial. He was confident, or at least he tried to be, in the knowledge that he _did_ know Sherlock, and _that_ would never happen.

 

 

 


	7. Chapter 6: Envious Of Thought

 

[ ](https://ibb.co/hfZW8wB)

 

   

 

 

> Envy, experienced by any wretched creature  
>  on the planet, consists of a painful and  
>  resentful awareness of an advantage enjoyed  
>  by another, joined with a deep desire to  
>  possess the same advantage.

 

 

Sherlock and Irene stepped through the plastic curtain splashed with various different colours. The rebel turned to note how Irene’s face beamed the second her olive stare landed in the small figure at the desk among the crates and shelves of paints and pigments. She twisted to look at him with glinting eyes and made a shushing gesture with her hands. Sherlock nodded and the both of them approached Archie, who was perusing the contents of an unknown box with his back to them. He appeared fascinated with the various pieces of papers he organised, enough for the silver-gazed boy to deduce the box possessed some sort of sentimental value to him. 

The Woman tiptoed towards him and knelt next to the desk. When Archie turned his head to figure out who was responsible for the disturbance he stared at her for a second “Irene?” He asked, his nose scrunched in confusion before his eyes grew wide and a big smile broke out over his small face once the realisation dawned. “Irene!” Exclaimed the boy as he stood to wrap his thin arms around her waist. “You came back!” Archie clutched her as if his short life depended on it, and Irene just let him hang on even if he was probably wrinkling her blue dress beyond salvation. 

“Hi!” She said, as her red smile portrayed a mirthful expression of which Sherlock had seen a lot since their lives got upgraded to Auradon. The boy with his arms around her didn’t even spare a look at the other figure in the room, so delighted his favourite person in the kingdom had returned.   
“Nice to see you too.” Sherlock commented grimly cynical at being ignored while he reached a hand to look over the items spread over the table. Archie continued to ignore him in favour of excitedly speed-interrogating the girl with the indigo hair. 

“Is it all as amazing as we imagined?” He said, as the girl nodded in delighted agreement. “Do they really have libraries of a thousand books? Have you been to a real swimming pool? What does ice cream taste like?” His questions so swift and eager that Irene didn’t have a chance to respond to any until he had to stop to breathe.

“It’s cold,” She said, while her eyes searched Sherlock’s as if to include him in the innocent exchange, the violet-haired boy shrugged dismissively and peaked inside the box now completely forgotten over the desk. “And it’s sweet,” She continued, the little boy listening enraptured. “And if you eat it too fast it gives you a headache.” His expression amazed as he bounced in place. The inspired line on his brown eyebrows doing nothing to mask his young age. Sherlock smirked amusedly as he recognised exactly what the contents of the mysterious box were.

“You kept all these?” He offered, breaking over the manic atmosphere of the room. Archie finally turned to acknowledge him. Grinning and clearly eager to embrace him too once more, but Sherlock’s hands on the newspaper clippings made him pause and stare at them both with a pink hue over his round cheeks.

“I steal the papers from across the street and cut them out.” He admitted, glancing down at his untied shoelaces and with his hands tucked shyly behind his back. Irene stared up at the rebel in search for agreement of the silent emotion brimming inside her eyes. Sherlock raised an eyebrow in response, as Archie took a few of the pictures and showed them off to them proudly. Several pieces on their exploits, with the faces of the three villain kids who had traveled to become Auradon citizens printed over each of them. A collection of their lives the past moon-cycles. 

The girl accepted each picture with reverence, thumbing softly over the ones that brought her the best memories. “Sherlock,” She commented, the moment she realised he was avoiding looking closely to any of them after he found out what they were. “There’s quite a lot of your face in here.” She said, showcasing some articles with him in various states of boredom or discomfort, laughing at his expression when she encountered one with the deerstalker placed on top of his head. Sherlock grimaced and scoffed while he refused to touch the paper as if it would result in it burning his fingers.

The little boy laughed at his reaction; he bit his bottom lip and his eyes crinkled in happiness. “This one is my favourite.” He commented, as Irene did her best not to outright laugh at his face at his obvious disgust.

A few more pictures were inspected, the genius did his best to hang back and tapped his foot, eager to get the chemicals they needed and just escape the trip down to memory lane. “Yellow is _such_ a good colour on you.” The Woman declared, her slender fingers clutching a picture of him and John sitting on a table with delicate fabrics of several different colours acting as curtains around them. His poorly distressed expression just shy of obvious, as the sympathetic gaze of the king looking at him smoothed over the line of his jaw and turned panic in own his face into just mild discomfort. 

“I spilled curry all over that.” Sherlock said, gesturing to the canary yellow of the shirt he wore on the picture. He retold to them the accident which had occurred entirely _not_ on purpose, despite what John said as he chuckled at the sight of the ruined shirt. The rebel had merely been a bit careless, and if the garment could never be worn after that, well, he was hardly to blame for _that_. 

“You did.” Irene said, turning her head away from the box and around to look back at him knowingly. Smirking at his faux-innocent face while Archie stared at them both in expectation and his hand clutching the sleeve of the rebel’s black leather coat. 

“I knew you can never take The Isle out of a person.” He said. The statement voiced in such a nonchalant way it contrasted starkly against what Sherlock felt at hearing it; the ease he had gained over the memory of John and him sharing a meal at _The Sand Lands_ clouded over by the trepidation inside his chest. His fingers clutched the edge of the picture so tightly he was half afraid he would later have to explain the wrinkles to Archie. His silver eyes fixed on John’s handsome face; unable to tear his gaze away even when he felt Irene’s assessing sight trained on him.  
  
The little boy seemed to notice the silence that had befell Sherlock, and in turn just stared at another article from the box. Irene sighed and reached for a random piece to present to Archie. “And what about this one?” She said, turning the boy’s attention away from the tension and focusing him on retelling the story of how he had acquired that particular note. Irene smile and listened, ignoring the grateful expression over Sherlock’s face, as his eyes weren’t able to leave the photograph.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The corridors of the Auradon prep dorms were silent at this hour of night. Barely a sound could be heard considering it was technically a school night —even if classes had been cancelled for Cotillion the next day— so it made Greg’s rushed stomping all the more sonorous as he raced through them as fast as his athletic body could manage. The blue carpet doing nothing to disguise his steps.

He rounded on a corner, skidding and almost collapsing with the hallway wall at the other side as he approached Sherlock’s room, where he had texted Mycroft to wait for him the second he had arrived back on land. The figure of said advisor was already waiting at the end of the corridor, patiently lingering with umbrella on side, looking as awake as if it were midday. 

“I’m sorry I’m so late.” Greg said panting from the exertion. The ginger stared at him with perfect posture. “I had to run all the way from the border.” Lestrade told as he gestured for them both to approach the boy’s room.

“Where’s the king?” Mycroft asked, his tone implying he already suspected exactly why John had not returned with him. The brunette stared as he caught his breath, bent with his hands over his knees. “He got captured.” The advisor explained for himself, before the words had even formed inside Lestrade’s mind. It was scary how the piercing gaze was so similar to that of his friend.

“Yes, we-” He started, ready to explain in length what had happened, but he halted once Sherlock’s door came into view and he saw light filtering out from the room. “Why is Sherlock’s door open?” Greg asked, as he watched Mike frown and walk faster towards it. Greg pushed the door all the way, only to be greeted by Anderson’s back. “You’ve got to be kidding me.” He exclaimed, crossing his muscular arms.

Philip startled, and turned quickly around to regard them. “I knocked.” He said, as he sheepishly smiled and attempted to hide something behind his back. Greg stalked angrily towards him and extended his hand in expectancy. Anderson sighed and reluctantly shoved the key on his hand. 

“What is that?” Lestrade now questioned, gesturing to the plaid fabric on the desk behind him, suspicious enough to stand out among the chaos Sherlock had left behind, even after taking most of his belongings with him. 

“A deer stalker,” Anderson chuckled and responded, proudly presenting his exact replica and ignoring the flaming look coming from Sherlock’s brother. He placed the hat over his head, but it slid down past his eye line. “But I just keep messing up the size and now it covers half of my face when-”

“Sounds like an improvement.” Lestrade interrupted, Mycroft still in silent annoyance and outrage. The athlete supposed had he acted, the Holmes would have snapped him in two with that umbrella he carried everywhere. 

Greg shoved Philip aside and started opening the left drawers on the desk. “Mr Anderson, if you would excuse us.” The ginger’s words were clipped and imperious, but clearly Anderson was enough of an idiot to ignore the warning behind the dismissal. He stepped closer and looked over the rebel’s shoulder in an attempt to figure out what they were looking for. Mycroft hung back and supervised the progress, ignoring the intruder completely after that. 

“Why are you guys going through Sherlock’s stuff?” The prince accused, taking a step back from them and thrusting his finger in their direction. An approaching sound of steps on the corridor could be heard only to stop a few paces away from the door, but was ignored in favour of trying to come up with a believable excuse —at least believable enough for a clueless moron like him.

“State matters that _do not_ concern you.” The ginger responded, turning his back towards him once more and declaring the discussion over. However, Anderson was clearly not the best at picking up cues to scatter. 

“But where are Sherlock and John?” He asked, his big nose scrunching as he frowned in confusion. “You’re committing treason, aren’t you?” His eyes widened and his mouth hung open as he figured it out —at leas, he thought he did. “I’ll have to tell John’s parents, or Lady Hudson-” He said, already retreating to the door to make a run for it and ruin all their plans.

“No!” Greg exclaimed and yanked him into the room by his arm. Philip stared at him expecting an explanation, and Lestrade moved his brown gaze to look at the advisor in permission. Mike nodded and agreed. “John got captured.” Lestrade said finally. 

“What?” Philip asked, the deer stalker falling from his hand in surprise. Yet his expression didn’t appear as worried as it perhaps should for one’s own king.

“Yes,” Mycroft confirmed. Drawing his posture even straighter as he delivered orders like he was used to doing. “And we would appreciate your discretion on the matter.” He said, despite the fact that the other boy looked ready to argue about it.

“Just don’t tell anyone, okay?” Greg was quick to add, as he adjusted the leather jacket over his shoulders and turned back to rummage through Sherlock’s drawers in search for the key to his magical chemistry gloves. “His life depends on it.” He declared, making sure to turn his head and make eye contact until the message pierced the other’s thick head and entered his brain.

“So if something were to happen,” Philip suddenly commented, attempting to casually ask something which he knew he shouldn’t. “You know, God forbid,”The scandalised expression over his face was not fooling Greg, so it must certainly not fool Mycroft either. “Who do you think would be in line to be king?” Anderson asked, pointing to himself in bashful uncertainty.

“I beg your pardon?” The ginger man took a step towards him, menacing form looming over him at the slight implication that John would not return whole. “That is in really poor taste.” He snarled. The rebel was sure he could see written in his expression how he was probably already deciding that if something were ever to happen to John, Anderson would be the last person alive to ever get the throne. Royal father and mother or not.

Lestrade stood up and grabbed the knob to the door as he gestured for Anderson to leave the room immediately. The rat faced grumbled but stumbled to comply. “I’m taking this.” He said, as he snatched Sherlock’s original deer stalker from the perch. “And if you think I-” He said when he had exited, only to have the door slammed on his face by Greg.

“Thank you, Lestrade.” Mycroft commented, a hint of real amusement and gratitude painted over his words. “Alright, who exactly took him?” He asked. His piercing blue eyes already searching for the answer all over the other’s form.

“E. and her crew.” The brunette replied, shrugging in embarrassment at having lost John to those sea rats. “For a few hours now.” He added details to work out as the other would surely scheme something. Him and Sherlock weren’t related by mere chance.

“I warned them when she was still a toddler,” Mycroft said, a distant expression hovering over his previous focus. “And now she’s an adult.” Greg stood back, unsure on what to reply to that. The moment was there, then gone from the advisor’s face as the sun peaking back from behind the clouds. “And Sherlock attempted to bargain with her.” He said as his eyes sharpened once more and he turned his blue gaze to the conversation.

“Yes.” Greg affirmed. No sense for him to pretend they hadn’t done exactly what she had wanted to spare their own humiliation.

“And?” Mycroft said, a ginger eyebrow rising over his prominent forehead.

“She wants Lady Hudson’s wand.” Greg concluded, while the other nodded as if he had previously deduced it. Well, there was no denying it sounded exactly as terrible as it actually was. With E. in charge of the most powerful magical artefact of the kingdom the only thing they could predict was devastation. Lestrade stuffed his glove-clad hand into his pocket and took out the note Sherlock had hastily written. “He told me to give you this.” He said as he offered it to the advisor, “And to call Molly.” He added the important detail.

After a few seconds of reading, Greg saw Mycroft nod in resignation and sigh. “I see.”He said, while the rebel stared at him with apprehensive eyes. “Well, Lestrade.” The ginger started. “It appears my brother will get his previous wish of a villain getting the wand after all.” He said, as Greg closed his eyes and grimaced.

_Well, shit_ _._

 

 

* * *

 

 

The process took a few several minutes, but once the bombs were all secured, and the reactions inside just awaiting to happen, Sherlock felt a sense of calm he hadn’t experienced since the control of wizardry had been discarded back on the main land. If nothing else —apart from how different his own skin had felt when they had crossed the barrier and the magic in him was able to run freely; no longer stalled by the dome—magic was great at allowing the owner to mend whatever you had managed to fuck up. But its messy and spontaneous nature was unpredictable at best, and Sherlock sometimes found respite from his already changeable self in reliable science.

“Got it?” Irene asked, handing him the last make-shift sack of colourful liquid to place on the bag. The others sporting varying shades and sizes, ready to launch and attack. Sherlock had thrown in a few of ill-smelling chemicals on some of them —mainly the green ones— and some that produced a bright explosion for emergencies. All in all, they were as prepared as they would ever be to face E. and her crew of idiot pirates.

“Done.” He said. “I believe that’s enough.” The silver-gazed arranged the bags, ready to carry them to his nearest bolthole and wait for Lestrade to return with the main piece on his scheme. “We’re off, and Archie,” He commented, as the boy stared at him with hopeful eyes. The rebel supposed he had really been helpful, providing them with the chemicals and a place to prepare the sacks; despite his constant questioning. “I’ve got a headless nun with your name on it for this.” Sherlock assured him, if not for anything else than to feed the curiosity the boy seemed to possess; brains were the only thing that he asked from that star-crossed island. 

“Yes!” Archie jumped in excitement, as Irene watched him with fondness. The indigo-haired girl was incredibly protective of the little miscreant since he had been a toddler in the corner of the shop, previously managed by his aunt. 

She reached into her leather bag and searched for the few sweets she sometimes carried with her. “And why don’t you eat these for me?” She said, presenting them to him with open hands. The other smiled and grabbed them, admiring them as his mouth opened in wonder. Sherlock finished loading the bag as he observed them interact, she really was like a big sister to him, even if the contrast in hair proved their different ascendence. But then again, him and Mycroft were almost completely dissimilar, and they were half brothers. 

“It’s like being there myself.” Archie said as he hastily pooped one inside his mouth, holding the rest to his chest as if they were precious stones. Her smile at seeing him so giddy faded, and she reached out and hugged him. 

“I really wish you could come with us.” She said, as a wave of guilt engulfed the violet-haired boy. He had carelessly given up the chance that would be best wasted on someone who actually wanted and deserved it. He did his best to swallow the foul taste in his mouth at the thought and hurried to finish up and get away from there as swiftly as he could.

“Don’t worry,” Archie assured the girl, as she turned her gaze to stare at Sherlock. The twin worried expression made him know she probably agreed with him. “I’m happy for you.” The fact that he didn’t even seemed to be sort-of lying when he said it was actually worse than if he hadn’t meant it at all. The Woman smiled sadly at him.

“Irene, let’s go.” Sherlock said in the face of this. The situation was turning morose and the last thing they needed was feeling despondent before a confrontation. The game faces needed to come back on.

“Okay.” She said brushing a strand of blue hair back over her ear. Archie waved them goodbye, as he retreated and sat at the desk once more, eagerly organising his collection again. The sunny grin not leaving his face as he stared at the newspaper articles with daydreaming-eyes.

Sherlock was ready to cross the plastic curtain, but Irene seemed nailed in place, staring at the little boy with a heartbroken expression, her arms coming around her own frame as a barrier for the disagreeable sight. “He’ll be fine.” The rebel said. 

“I know.” She responded, but her face clearly betrayed that she thought little Archie should be so much more than just fine.

 

 

* * *

 

 

“That was hilarious.” Irene said, the amusement evident in the tone of her voice. “Remember how he panted with anger?” She asked Sherlock, whom she had trapped with an arm around his elbow. The girl laughed as the both of them made their way back to his hideout to await for dawn.

“Well, if he didn’t want to be stripped out of his money, he should have thought of that before he underestimated my robot.” Sherlock answered, his haughty face not turning to look at her as he justified swindling a man twice his size out of three moon-cycle’s rent in a street machine fight.

“You planned it that way!” She exclaimed, her delighted words echoing in the empty alley they were passing. Several buckets and rubbish bins around them as they laughed at the absurdity of their lives in one of the lowest parts of The Isle. She was irrevocably right; looking like he had before his growth spurt and with a robot smaller than a golf ball, the both of them hadn’t been scary to even the most spineless criminal on the island, specially not to an arrogant moron like that. Of course, none of them had thought to wonder whether there was a genius topped with violet curls under the hoodie or a melting laser inside the tiny machine.

“Yes, well.” The silver-gazed dismissed, his hands waving around him as he delighted in the wicked remembrance. “There’s always an idiot eager to believe their toy is the biggest or that spells can be broken by a _‘True love’s kiss’_.” He said, scrunching up his nose in distaste to the word.

“Wasn’t that your mother?” The girl asked, distinctly remembering the wheel, and the hundred cycle sleep, and the breaking of said curse. Her free hand coming to rest on her hips in sceptic defiance.

“You morons believed that?” The other questioned, laughing framed by his coat collar, as his mercury eyes sparkled with enjoyment and disbelief. “Auradon has witches of their own.” He explained, which justified a lot better all _true love_ ’s inconstant rules about the breaking of spells. Although Sherlock could see she thought it a shame that such a thing as a love strong enough to break any spell didn’t exist. He supposed for an admitted slut, his friend was a romantic at heart. 

“I really thought that’s what you and John had.” She said, bringing a painful death to his somewhat better mood. A cloud hovering over his expression once more as he fought not to hunch in his shoulders. “The _‘True love’s kiss’_ thing, I mean,” She clarified, backing up a few steps when she noticed he had stopped walking. He knew exactly what she had meant, but that didn’t make it any easier for him to react. He had been failing at that since he arrived at the kingdom. “What happened?” Irene released his arm and crossed both of them in front of her chest, looking at him with a recognisable expression of stubbornness. “Come on,” The girl insisted. “I’ve known you for cycles.” 

“Exactly.” The curly-haired boy responded, when he was able to keep walking once again. “You should know why I can’t go back there.” The explanation didn’t sit well with his friend, Sherlock could tell, but as he hasted around the corner and up some crooked stairs, she was left demanding explanations to his back. He didn’t answer any of them, and soon enough they found themselves secured away at a hidden room behind an old advertisement board. 

The boy placed the bag with the smoke bombs on a table and flung himself on the couch. Irene arched an eyebrow and moved his boot-clad feet out of the way before sitting on the new space. Her olive eyes narrowed at him, as he attempted to ignore her. “I would ask you why you kept this to yourself for so long, but since when do you ever talk about what you’re feeling?” She said, as the boy closed his eyes and made no move to acknowledge her comment. She already had the answer to that riddle, and he was much too irritated, and frustrated, and worried about the unknowing threat looming over them to search for a reply. “Fine, do whatever you want, then.” She huffed, as she arranged the bracelets on her wrists. “I’m staying too.” 

“No,” Sherlock sat up at that, his attention fully focused now. “You’re going back to Auradon.” He demanded, noticing her now raised eyebrows at his sudden engagement. “You think I didn’t notice how your whole expression changed the second we stepped out of that car?” He asked, to which she adverted her gaze. Despite how selfish he truly was, he had been unable to spoil that for her; for _both_ of them. Lestrade was as enamoured with the kingdom as she was, and his own inadequacy to belong anywhere shouldn’t be reason for the both of them to desert the joy they had found because of him. Just like it wasn’t fair for Sherlock to be allowed to suck the life out of the kingdom’s soul just because he sucked at playing nice with everybody else. A bad apple always found a way to rot all the others.

“And you want to stay here on your own?” Irene grimaced. “What about me and Greg?” She asked. The rebel stared at her, his heart beating faster than usual, but failed to answer. He knew he was abandoning them too, and despite everything else, _they_ were his family. He held them both in such high regard, even if he would never express so in such words. The three of them had been through so much with only one another, and Sherlock didn’t really want to give them up either; but he appeared to have no other choice— he just couldn’t keep up the act. Not even a spell would be able to make him fit in there, and on good days he could fool himself into believing his situation was not as bad, just a few changes and he was digestible to society; but all other days were bad enough to not want to brave it. 

“Welcome to visit whenever you see fit.” He eventually said, aware that could prove difficult due to the strict rules regarding citizens on the island and their contact with the outside world. The royals didn’t allow much association in fear they would snare someone from the outside into helping them escape, or manage a way to get out on their own. And the last thing John needed as a new king was to deal with every single villain free to come seeking for revenge. The girl with the indigo hair stood up and paced away, her hand on her jaw and her distant gaze contemplative. 

“And John?” She asked, staring directly at him now.

“He must never come back here.” Sherlock said, although the rebel knew it was more an order than a suggestion. “He can’t keep dealing with all the idiots I’ve slighted or humiliated in the past,” The violet haired was sure he could deal with them on his own, as he always had. But having John in danger not only proved highly disadvantageous but he also refused to put the blonde in any harm’s way if he could help it. “Which is a lot of them.” He said.

“He’s a royal.” Irene said. “They have tons of enemies of their own.” The explanation not exactly helping her point either. “He was probably gonna get captured anyway.” She said.

Sherlock turned his head up to her and looked in warning, “Sorry.” She muttered, but didn’t appear to be as sorry as she should. Regretful to have said it out loud even if she still thought that way. She looked around as if she expected the graffitied walls to whisper an answer on how to make Sherlock understand. When none came she sat herself in her previous spot as the rebel relaxed back into the couch once more, not wanting to give it a single more thought. “Don’t you think John should have a say in this?” She finally asked, her often perfect posture slouching down defeated. Vulnerable.

“No,” The silver-gazed said, extending honesty for openness. “John would try to do right by me and not spend a single moment thinking about his own happiness,” And wasn’t that the biggest joke? The one to whom John wanted to give the world and every tender attention in the universe, was the one least entitled to it. “Like an idiot.” He said.

“Just like you’re doing right now, you mean?” Irene commented, ignoring the death glare the other gave her. She knew he couldn’t find fault in her reasoning or he would have said something. If anything, Sherlock wished to stop all the vulnerability once things were back as they should be. 

The girl stood up once more and steeled herself for something. She took a deep breath before speaking. “You know,” She said. “With the cookies? I always wondered why it had to be you the one that John fell in love with.” She explained, with a tone that suggested she suspected the answer to the mystery, even if she wanted to hear it come out of his mouth.

“It was more practical-” He started saying, but she cut him off before he could go on with something that they both knew was a lie. 

“No.” She stated, “ _I_ was a better option.” Her slender fingers touched her chest in demonstration. “I’m an expert in seduction, and the adequate gender for an easier and conventional relationship.” The Woman was right on all three, but she appeared to have been purposely missing the main counterpoint. “So why you?” The question was no longer unexpected; Sherlock suspected she had been sitting on this since they were baking the damn things, but he never imagined she would have the guts to confront him about it, if anything to at least spare him the humiliation.

“I know what you’re trying to say,” He snarled instead; attempting to get her off his case about it. “And I assure you, you are mistaken.” It was done, John and him were no more and whatever else anyone thought about it was pointless, inconsequential, hurtful.

“Maybe.” She said, looking at her rings glinting in the light sneaking in from the tiny window on the back of the room. Giving him a sliver of respite from her challenging gaze. “But don’t you think there’s a reason why you didn’t even think it could be anyone else in the kingdom but you?” Irene asked, returning her knowing eyes at him in a stare down that he definitely didn’t win. She sighed, recognising he was not going to reply, possibly ever; but her surprised eyebrows didn’t hide the fact that his answer was probably written all over his face anyway.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The sun was starting to peak in from over the horizon, ready to bathe the kingdom in pink and golden light. The first rays of sunshine framing the scene inside a dorm room where three unlikely figures awaited. Greg didn’t understand why Mycroft had sent for someone to retrieve the wand —instead of going himself— and was actually apprehensive to trust whoever that person was, even if the King’s most loyal advisor had clearly placed an incredible amount of trust in them. 

Molly was seated on a chair in the corner, watching them both with big round eyes, as she fidgeted with her baggy, baby blue jumper. They had metaphorically dragged her out of bed for this, and now whoever the ginger had sent to get the wand was taking forever to arrive.

After a few moments, the knock finally came and Mycroft straightened his light grey suit as he gracefully opened the door. He accepted a heavy suitcase and closed the door without uttering a single word to the other person. In fact, as short as the exchange had been, Greg couldn’t be sure from where he was standing —with his view blocked by the door— that the older man hadn’t just conjured the case up while they weren’t looking. Except of course, for the fact that the man didn’t possess the gift of magic.

“The wand has been retrieved,” He said, as he placed the hard case over the desk, on top of various items of questionable origin and opened the lid carefully; Molly stood from her seat, but hesitated on getting any closer to it. The last time she had any contact with such artefact had not gone overly well; so Greg could understand any uncertainty on her part at being presented with the object once more. Specially since knowing only she could help them with this.

Lestrade leaned over the case, with a curiosity that was hard to mask at the face of such opportunity. However, now confronted with it up close, the wand inside was far from impressive, just another wooden intricate thing bathed in silver; but in no way appearing nearly as powerful as it should. It was supposed to be the highest of enchanted objects, yet it sat dully and ordinarily inside its velvet encasing. “Are you sure?” The rebel asked, his eyebrows scrunched up and his mouth unable to conceal his disappointed grimace. The ginger haired man stood back and remained silent. “It looks-” The rebel started commenting, but was halted as the other grabbed the gloves from the drawer, and tossed them carelessly to him; who barely caught them.

Molly placed a small hand over her worried mouth; hiding her deep rose-coloured cheeks of embarrassment at her own nervousness. The moment she saw the other two present stare at her in mild surprise she averted her gaze and shuffled her feet a few centimetres further from them and the case. “Sherlock’s instructions.” Mycroft assured, dismissing Greg’s doubt with a wave of a hand and gesturing him to proceed.

Lestrade grumbled as he bit off the corners of the fingerless gloves he often wore to pull them off, and hastily put on the magic-isolating protection. He took a glance at the girl for support, but she seemed way more doubtful of the whole situation than he could ever be. He shrugged and reached inside the case. The wand was not heavy at all, and retrieving it and placing it on the bed was just like it was with any other object.

“Do your magic, so to speak.” The ginger addressed Molly this time, extending a hand to encourage her into approaching. 

She took a deep breath and shuffled closer, “I-” She stammered, “I don’t know what to do.” Her wide eyes searched the others’ expressions as her hands shook. Back then, the wand had gone off as soon as she had touched it, and now she was understandably fearful that it would happen once again.

“Sherlock clearly believes you more than adequate.” Came the deep voice of said boy’s brother, a silent aloofness in his face, even if his words appeared placating. “I’m afraid I’m unacquainted with the practical methods of sorcery.” He said and then turned to Greg, who stared on with arms crossed and hands still inside magic proof mittens. “You’ve seen my brother do it, perhaps you could shed some light on what you have witnessed.” The royal advisor prompted, and the other could only flail his arms in bafflement.

“I just know he uses his Mind Palace.” He said, although he failed to know what use that bit of information could have when Molly didn’t have one and would probably need her very own brand of magic wilding anyway. The girl appeared more distressed at his reaction, hugging her own frame as she stared at them both in a plea for assistance. Greg hated he couldn’t help her further than that.

“Just try concentrating.” He offered, not really sure if it would make any difference. Mycroft casually inspected his umbrella, leaving the decision up to her of when to start trying. She nodded and lowered her arms, only to raise them up a second later and hovering both her hands over the wand placed innocently over Sherlock’s dusty blue bedcover.

Her expression changed from hesitant to determined, to desperate as several moments of struggling gave no clue of any result. The three of them staring expectant to the inert object. Lestrade could admit he didn’t really have any idea what exactly they were trying to achieve with the wand, but the inexistent change on it let him know that whatever it was, it certainly wasn’t _that_.

“It’s not working.” He commented. The exasperated rolling blue eyes of Mycroft Holmes not letting him deny his familial relations in the least, Sherlock had practically _invented_ that face.

“I’m sorry.” Molly was quick to apologise. “I’ve never-” The weight of the task didn’t help the dire situation at all. This was the worst time for anyone to be learning how to use magic, much less Molly who had spend the majority of her life trying to conceal she even had the ability to begin with. 

“Hey,” Greg reached out and placed his strong hand over her shoulder. She squinted at him confused, which made him take it off a second later, but her soft, shy smile let him know his support was being well received nonetheless. “You organised all of Cotillion almost by yourself.” He said, “And dealing with Sherlock must have been even worse.” The small laugh he managed to get out of her was a victory greater than any other he had had on the field. The tense line of her back relaxed minutely as he assured. “So, you’ve got this.” Greg finished, awkwardly stepping away from her and glancing back at Mike, who watched the exchange with a raised eyebrow, but a contrasting restless foot. 

“Magic responds to intention, Ms. Hooper.” The ginger offered, “Try visualising your intended result.” The girl looked up at him, biting on her bottom lip as she nodded in understanding. Greg knew she was doing it to help John, —she was his best friend after Mycroft, and even the ginger and her had formed a bond over the cycles— but she was clearly not anywhere near comfortable doing it, and will probably never do so again. Unlike Sherlock, who had taken to it instantly as if he had been doing it for his whole life. 

“Maybe if we turned around?” Lestrade said, “Let you focus?” His face portrayed a calm he certainly didn’t feel, but Molly looked at him gratefully for the suggestion, and Greg counted that as positive.

She agreed and both of them turned their bodies away from the bed and any sight they had with the proceedings. Molly closed her eyes and placed her hands above the wand once more. They heard her exhale loudly and then a long silence seemed to stretch over the room, dragging the seconds on until the rebel felt he wouldn’t be able to take the uncertainty for much longer. Just as he was about to turn around and ask if she wanted to try another route he heard a sharp gasp, followed by the girl’s thin words. “Is it-” She paused, her voice trembling. “Is it supposed to glow like that?” She said, and the both of them turned around to the sight of almost blinding white lights sparkling out of the delicate instrument.

 

 

* * *

 

 

There was a smell of sea life on the air. The waves that lapped at the side of the ship in which John was currently trapped bringing with them the stench of rotting fish and humidity. It certainly wasn’t the worst aspect of his situation, but if he had to be uncomfortably tied to a wooden pole and be used as a bargaining chip for his kingdom by a maniac, he would very much appreciate not having to endure such horrid scent too.

A man —who he now knew as Trevor— approached him, strutting smugly towards him and pausing only when the king could see just his looming presence beside him and the feeling of his breath against his neck. He had taken to standing too close while grinning like a lunatic in order to intimidate him; and although John didn’t repress the urge to roll his eyes at the obvious attempt to torment him, he couldn’t deny that somewhere deep inside him, the bullying was wearing him down.

“How does it feel to be king now, eh?” Trevor asked, laughing at his unconcealed attempts to not react to any of his taunts. Having heard everything from insults to his person and reign, to worrying details about Sherlock’s sordid past that let him wondering exactly how this person came to acquire that knowledge. John glared at the ginger man, his mouth forming a thin line of annoyance as the other fiddled with a small knife in his grasp. Always making a show of bringing it closer to his skin.

“We don’t want damaged goods.” Came the voice of a girl from behind him. She rounded the beam and appeared on his line of vision a second later. The king could only see her profile with vibrant waves of teal hair tumbling down her shoulders as she shoved Trevor away from him. She then paused, as if really thinking about his presence for the first time. John watched as Victor stood aside and grumbled while Seb took sure steps to stand next to him. 

She turned around, and fixed her pale gaze on the royal, but paid no mind when one of her ‘boys’ climbed the net hanging from the mast and supported himself on one arm. “You said we could knife him.” The ginger complained, as the other boy crossed his arms in front of his chest.

The girl’s face —who could only be what Mycroft described as E.— remained impassive, her eyes not leaving John as she answered. “ _I said_ at noon.” The tone she used left no argument on Victor’s side, but John still grabbed the opportunity to stare at him with a smirk. Silently amused that such a scary man was quickly subdued by a girl whose age was probably closer to his own than that of her pirate crew.

Victor dropped himself from the rope and paced to him, rage boiling inside his gaze as he turned around and made to leave. Seb stepped behind him, and stopped to present to him an old fob watch covered in grime but with intricate design. “Twenty more minutes.” He whispered to him conspiringly. Tapping the knife in his hand against the wood above the blonde’s head. 

John leaned forward and caught a glance at the clock. “That says eleven thirty.” He said, unable to hide the amusement in his voice. Perhaps he shouldn’t be mocking his captors, but big scary guys were of no real fright to him. Mycroft was usually a lot more intimidating that that. The girl before him with baggy gown and the arctic eyes, however, _she_ made him nervous.

“I’m only trying to help you.” She spoke, a tone so devoid of emotion that made John wonder whether she was just reciting something she had memorised before. “We can help each other.” E. said, while the royal frowned at the suggestion. “Helping someone is the best way you can help yourself.”

“Help me do what?” The king asked, his blue eyes fixed on the other’s face. Something about those kaleidoscope eyes had him on edge. Her expression didn’t change; only remained blank as she searched for some truth over his form. Scanning the details but never quite giving anything away herself. “Look, I get that you don’t deserve this,” John said, figuring it was —as far as he knew— the truth.

E. laughed, a rehearsed horrid sound that rung loudly inside his ears. “Your father made this island a prison because of his principles.” She said, blinking at him under the grey haze casted by the filtered sunlight above them. “Principles you too posses,”The words pulling him forward, making him actually wonder whether he too was failing at ruling just like his father. “So why are you so adamantly against it? Is it rebellion?” She asked. “Compassion?” The wind blew on her teal strands, obscuring partially her high cheekbones as her gaze never wavered from him.

John blinked and shifted his cramped muscles against his bonds. “What about your rebellion?” He demanded, noting the seashell charm hanging from a chain around her neck. “Isn’t that your father’s touchstone?” He said, vaguely remembering his lessons on magical artefacts. 

E. smiled, indifferent to the turmoil her words should be causing her. “My father doesn’t care about me.” She said, “He abandoned me here, just like my mother did when she got a replacement.” The way in which she scoffed sent a wave of uncertainty towards John.

“Ouch.” He declared eloquently, while the muscles in his forehead locked. 

“Pity is senseless.” The girl with the teal hair replied. The sounds of the crew preparing for departure not drowning her apathy in the slightly. John glanced around, noting a few men and women working on various chores, while the girl before him stood relaxed at his conversation.

“That’s right.” The blonde said, a hint of an entertained smirk over his features. “You’re very resourceful,” He said, only to watch real curiosity cross her face, delighting in the opportunity of finding something out. John shrugged and said. “I don’t see you tied up.” Which was explanation enough. 

E. took a few steps back, and leaned back over the railing on the deck. “You have a very expressive face.” She commented, looking at the restless waves down below for a moment, but she turned her head to stare at him once more. Her gaze stirring something in John, something almost familiar. “It would be such a wasted opportunity if I had to feed you to the fishes.”

“Oh, you don’t,” The king was quick to suggest, nonchalantly speaking as he saw her expression morph into interest. “Set me free and you can come with us.” He said, shrugging as if it was the most natural development of events.

“So I get an invitation now.” E. stated. She walked towards him and stood before the boy they called king. “Fascinating.” She said, a fixed smile over her mouth, as her changing teal eyes shifted over his tiny features. The look almost _deductive_ in its intensity. “But your survival is strictly conditional on whether Sherlock brings me the wand.” The words were uttered with indifference, and John felt more like a lab rat experiencing science from the wrong perspective for the first time. It was no wonder how she managed to snare whoever she wanted, some people would do anything to avoid such horrible sense of exposure; thankfully the blonde, having grown up with Mycroft, felt quite immune to the vulnerability. “Do you trust your boyfriend, John?” She asked, but the king refused to answer.

“He’s not my boyfriend anymore.” He said instead. Hurrying away from the subject of his mischievous boy; a threat to the kingdom was easy to face emotionally, —just a bit of worry and a lot of rage and you’re good to go— but heartache was not something he wanted to discuss with whoever this girl thought she was.

At the mention of the terminated relationship she reached out her thin arms to grab his shoulders. “Why?” She asked, with a sudden desperation on knowing the answer. “If possible describe your motivations with specific details, I can’t always read them from your body.” She ordered, and the royal did his best to lean away while still being trapped. “Are you uncomfortable talking about him?” The teal-haired girl asked at his attempt to escape the question.

“I’d rather talk about you.” He offered instead, but her wooden expression did not return, overcome now by the need to know behind what he said. 

“It’s a first.” She said, “You certainly didn’t care enough to bring any of us over before.” The words appeared superfluous for a mindset like hers; and that was when John understood she wasn’t complaining in reality, she worded them as if she were just saying them to look at his reaction. The king was loath to admit he couldn’t help but react.

“I never thought of it like that.” He said, realising the truth in her words. “That I could’ve hurt the people I didn’t pick,” He frowned, ignoring the threat on his life and his realm for a bit to turn introspective. “My plan was to start with a few and then bring more people over, but I guess I was busy being king,” He had a sudden need to explain, even if his excuses sounded pathetic to his own ear.s “That sounds lame.” He admitted and sighed. “I’m so sorry.”

The lines of hysteria in the girl’s face smoother over, as she stared at him now in contemplation. “Your strict moral code destroys you.” She commented, as her head tilted to the right. “It got Sherlock every time too, despite the fact that the universe revolves around him,” Her hands staying frozen in place, as if she didn’t know how to bodily express with them, but her tone turned mocking. Gone was the appraising words, now they were laced with derision. “Amazing the times a person doesn’t really look at your face.” E. commented, “Sherlock tries and tries and he still can’t see it.” 

John’s frown deepened, his breath coming in short puffs as she took the hair away from her face; almost daring him to look into her eyes. “The question is do you?” She asked, and he trembled when he understood the brimming feeling inside for recognition.

“Who are you?” John demanded, struggling once more against his bonds in a feeble attempt to stay away from her. The familiar eyes tracking every moment he made. Her gaze growing expressive as he stared at her in bewilderment.

“I’m Euros.” She said, almost like a confession, although it didn’t really explain the horrible feeling inside his chest. “Means the East Wind.” She offered, the cynical words ringing inside his ears as a vague suspicion took form in his mind, now certain he’d heard that before. “Silly name, isn’t it?” She asked. “Just my mother doing what she did best,”

“Being really, _really_ evil.” John whispered the rest; panicking at finding out why did she feel so _familiar._ A heavy weight crushing his body as several other sentences cemented the answer in his head. 

  
_—‘Our mother didn’t really posses the habit of hoarding that which had no use to her.’—_  
—‘Daughter of the Leviathan, and unknown mother.’—  
—‘We’re all just half-siblings.’.—

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you think.


	8. Chapter 7: Party With My Enemies

 

[ ](https://ibb.co/FqT3rGm)

 

   

 

 

> Something every villain needs is an enemy.   
>  A person who is actively adversed and hostile  
>  to someone or something, often resulting in  
>  opposition and engagement in antagonistic  
>  activities from both parties.

 

 

“ Okay,” Lestrade said once the bag was secured to his back and the list of instructions was safely folded in the inside pocket. He preferred not to dwell too much in the contents of the bag behind him, lest he succumbed to the urge of ripping it off and forgo the mission altogether. That thing gave him the creeps. “I’ve gotta go.” He said to the other two present in the room. Both of which shuffled uncomfortably in apprehension for the confrontation to come. 

“What about me?” Molly was the one to speak first, her brown wide eyes looking at him in fear that he would ask her to accompany him. She picked at a loose thread on her sleeve in anxiety, as her mouth was pressed in a thin line. Greg stepped closer and placed a strong hand over her shoulder.

“No,” He said, as he smiled encouragingly at the girl. “You should stay here with Mycroft in case the plan doesn’t work.” As soon as the words were out of his mouth he realised that perhaps neither of them —including him— were ready to joke about the doom of the kingdom; specially if it involved danger to their friends.

Molly gasped, and her mouth opened in fright. “What? But-” She muttered, unsure on how to respond to the unexpected comment. Mycroft stood back, the fingers clutching the umbrella turning white at his hold. 

Sensing the growing panic in the room, the rebel was quick to amend it. “It will.”He promised, not entirely sure himself on whether he believed it. “Sherlock’s plan.”His hands gestured to the backpack strapped to his shoulders as he explained. He didn’t even know what they were supposed to be doing, or why Sherlock thought it would help them; magic was beyond the understanding of most and somehow the violet-haired boy had found a way to make it work for him in a place were it wasn’t only forbidden, but impossible. “Whatever it is, it _will_ work.” He said, his eyes earnest in making them share the trust in Sherlock’s insane plans.

Molly smiled slightly and nodded, her chest slowing down as her breathing came back to a normal rhythm. Perhaps they didn’t know the genius as he did, but witnessing what happened in John’s coronation was enough. She arranged her jumper sleeves and made to leave now that her part was done, but just as she was about to cross the door she turned hastily back and, in an uncharacteristic spontaneous move, the brunette rushed to Lestrade and circled her small arms around his shoulders. Molly hugged him as if he was not going to return, and Greg thought that perhaps he should be more worried about _that_ being the definite case. When she released him, her smile was a bit stiffer at the edges, but the rebel didn’t have time to respond or even comment as she hasted out of the room this time and left him alone with the person who probably had the most to lose if this whole scheme was to blow up in their faces.

Greg waited a few seconds, unsure on how to break the tense atmosphere lingering over both their forms. “What happens if it doesn’t work and she gets the wand?” He asked in an impulse. Pressing his lips immediately after as if to keep any other treacherous words trapped inside his mouth.

Mycroft twisted the umbrella and stared straight ahead, a detached tone as he answered. “Auradon gets run down by villains and the royal family most likely gets executed.” Lestrade was completely aware that there was no way in which the ginger would be indifferent if that were to happen. He turned to watch the older man, feeling despair crush the tiny hopes they had of actually winning.

“So, not good.” He muttered, a grimace on his face as he steeled himself to take the next steps to the door and face whatever the hell E. had prepared for them. 

The king’s advisor remained silent for a few more moments, as if contemplating the weight of the words he was about to utter. The rebel shifted in place as he awaited what he was sure would be something he didn’t want to hear. “Lestrade.” Mycroft started, his voice a touch softer than the usual stoic, rational tone he preferred. “It appears the security of the king and the kingdom now rests in your hands.” He said, confirming Greg’s previous apprehensions. “Yours and my brother’s.” The ginger added. Lestrade failed to know what to respond, empty promises would never cover up the fact of how uncertain their situation was. “Here are the keys.” The ginger said, his icy blue eyes piercing through the other’s soul as he hesitantly took them in his outstretched hand. “Make sure to bring everyone back before Cotillion.”

With not much to say after that, Greg nodded and exited the room, with the the keys still tightly clutched in his palm. He hurried along the empty corridors and stepped out into the early morning wind. The sky was already turning blue and purple, the sun having broken the horizon for quite a few minutes already. The boy treaded in silence as he held onto the strap of the bag attached to his strong shoulders.

Just as he was about to turn the corner of the building and make a run into the woods to save himself some time, another figure appeared at the entrance. “Oh hey!” Janine said, her grinning face completely at odds with her disheveled appearance; Greg only spared a second to wonder the reason as to why she would be wandering around in her pyjamas at almost seven in the morning. “Have you seen Irene?” She asked, her arms crossed against the chilly breeze. “My date blew me off and-”

Lestrade hesitated, the drumming on his ears barely making it possible to continue hearing her explanation. “She went camping.” He blurted out, grimacing as soon as the sentence was out and the girl’s face turned confused. _‘Great,’_ he thought. _‘That sounds believable’._

True to form, Janine bit her lip and stared at him with a frown. “Camping?” She asked, a hint of disbelief on her lilting voice. 

Greg supposed there was nothing more to do than to go down with it. “Yes.” He replied, even if he knew how absurd it sounded even to his own ears. The boy smiled encouragingly, hoping she would buy it. He struggled to not draw attention to the backpack, and risk her asking questions about that too. If anybody else caught wind of this, John’s life could be in serious danger.

However, Janine didn’t seem very impressed by his efforts. “ _Irene-I-want-to-live-in-a-castle_ sleeping on the ground?” She asked, her face now relaying suspicion and her deep brown eyes narrowing. “With no place to plug in a hair dryer? The day before Cotillion?”

“You know how spontaneous she can be.” He replied, laughing nervously and patting her shoulder to show camaraderie and try to shift the focus away from how ridiculous a notion it was.

“But-” Janine refuted, yet Lestrade was already backing away slowly, smiling innocently. She took two sure steps towards him, ready to follow through with her questionnaire despite not being sure she trusted any information that was being given to her at the moment.

“Listen, I’ve gotta go.” He said, hurriedly moving as she stayed behind and finally gave up on getting to him. “Later!” Came the exclamation, as he heard the slapping of his heavy boots over the pavement while she grew smaller by the distance.

He was all but sprinting, turning his head back every time he could to make sure she was not behind him anymore. As he did this, Greg lost focus on the vision ahead, and collided forcefully with a body in front of him. The sight of a frowning Sally Donovan greeted him as he struggled to rearranged his clothes from the impact, she frowned up at him clothed in a royal fencing suit with a quiver of swords at her back.

He had a second to panic before she placed her hands over her hips and spoke. “I’m coming with you.” She said, her stubborn eyes let him know it was in no way a question or a request. 

Lestrade attempted to frown in faux confusion, but his wide eyes and heaving chest prevented him from appearing anywhere near casual that he knew there was almost no point in keeping up the act. “What?” He said. Chuckling as if she were being ridiculous. Sally, however, didn’t appear very impressed. “I don’t need swords at…” Greg said, but wilted as he realised he had no idea what to say next, and she would most probably not believe him any way no matter with what he came up. 

“You’re going to the isle to rescue John.” She said, as Lestrade sighed in defeat, there would be no way to shake her off his back if she already knew what was happening.He figured she must’ve heard when they told Anderson, or otherwise Philip himself had blabbed about it. Both of which were not good at all. “Look, it’s either you take me or I’m gonna have to speak with Lady Hudson about it.” She said, a smirk already painted on her face while one of her eyebrows arched up. He was screwed, and she knew it; but as long as Mycroft didn’t found out about it, he supposed taking her with him would be the best option.

“Okay, fine!” He said, as she cheered in triumph and took off running towards the path inside the forest. He was left standing there, confused as to exactly what happened and then attempting to keep up with her as they sprinted towards the docks.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The island was covered with grey clouds, heavier and thicker than the usual haze over the dome. If luck was on their side —which had stubbornly not been for quite a while— they would avoid the torrential rain that threatened to come down upon their heads. Irene crossed her arms and leaned back on the brick wall behind her.Lestrade was taking longer than anticipated to return with Lady Hudson’s wand, and the wait was not only turning her anxious and worried, but had transformed Sherlock into a horror show of contrast. Still as a corpse one moment, —entranced by his own whirling thoughts of despair— and a rage monster the next. Irene hoped whatever he had planned would work, not only for the preservation ofJohn’s safety, the kingdom, and their life in it, but because she didn’t know what would happen to Sherlock —or to anything in his proximity— if this didn’t pan out as he wanted. If something bad were to happen to John Watson, she was quite sure no one else would survive the devastation the rebel would become. 

After a few more moments of waiting, she saw a vehicle crossing the magical barrier on the bridge. At her gesture, Sherlock lifted his head and fixed his shinning gaze to the car, almost as if attempting to will it to hurry up. Once it had stopped on the parking place, the violet-haired approached and tapped his foot as Greg got out of the seat. Another figure exited the car at the other side. 

“I’ll get the swords.” She said, throwing the trunk open and unloading a few swords from the back, as Irene stood back confused and Sherlock all but pounced on her.

“Donovan, what are you doing here?” He growled, his pale cheeks turning red from what The Woman could only assume was pure rage that she dared to involve herself in matters that were exclusively his and John’s —without, of course, counting E. and her pirate crew, and his own allies, and the threat to the whole realm.— But in his eyes, all of that seemed to be inconsequential.

“Hello, freak.” Sally responded, which didn’t exactly help to ingratiate her with any of them, but the others just stood back as Sherlock glared from beneath his purple fringe. She huffed an unimpressed laugh, and the boy just grew more exasperated by it, he was already a bit raw as the hour of set confrontation grew near.

“She made me bring her.” Lestrade added from behind them, as he took the swords and made to place them inside a quiver in order to carry them. Irene eyed the weapons and regarded Greg, as his eyebrows drew together while he watched the exchange of the others. 

“If she’s carrying swords I’m fine with it.” Irene admitted, acknowledging their previous oversight at not planning for a combat. Her red lips pressed into a line as she sighed. 

Sherlock appeared to have consumed the time he could waste arguing with her, and turned to leave; but just as he was approaching the others, Donovan muttered something from behind the trunk’s lid. “Good job getting the king captured.” She said, and the other stopped dead in his path. The girl with indigo hair turned to Lestrade, he shared her look of worry as they watched how Sherlock’s face changed.

“I didn’t bring him here,” He snarled as he turned. His tone venomous as she stared at him, only partially regretting her back-handed comment. “He came on his own and these _idiots_ didn’t stop him.” The silver-gazed boy gestured to his friends, but neither of them found it very alarming; it was mainly Sally that needed to thread carefully if she didn’t want her head bitten off. She wisely stayed silent after that.

After sparing her one last hateful glance, Sherlock turned around and scanned the faces of their spectators. “Where is it?” He barked to Lestrade, to which he fumbled with the zipper on the backpack and tilted the bag forward so his friend could see its contents. 

The younger boy smiled, and reached out a slender hand. He curled his fingers over its length and took it out from hiding. “Brilliant.” He whispered as he inspected the most powerful wand in the magical world, its force the only sort of magic that worked underneath the dome, as it was the object that had created it. The bright sparkles it gave almost blinding at the stark contrast against the grey clouds in the sky. Sherlock replaced the wand inside the bag and joined his hands in anticipation. At least he looked satisfied at the inspection with whatever it was the wand required. “Keep it hidden until we get there.” He said to Lestrade, as the other nodded.

“Are we ready?” Irene asked, and the violet-haired boy raised a bag where the smoke bombs were carefully stored. 

“Yes.” He said. Irene smiled and turned around to enter the tunnel that would get them straight to the docks, hearing the steps of the others following her through the entrance as they advanced to fight.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Noon was approaching fast. The midday clouds already hovering above the island over sea and land alike —well, what passed as cloudy in there— the water reflected back the beams of light, painting the scene a weird hazy atmosphere not unlike a dream. Sherlock and the others came out of the tunnel and into the rickety bridge over the waves that lead to the widest part of the docks, where ships appeared parked in a row, one by one next to the sand. 

The violet-haired boy stepped on the wood, a small part of him hoping the rotten structure wouldn’t collapse before he was all the way through. The last thing he fancied was being involved in a malfunction that would drop him several meters down and plunge him into the deep, cold, untrusting waters now. Deep waters, for all his life, it seemed.

Rags and fishing nets hung from the ceilings and down the railing of the bridge; it was only when his foot was once again on a wooden staircase —over ordinary land— that Sherlock truly thought of what he was about to do. He was risking everything, not just for himself but for every other creature that roamed isle and kingdom alike. He turned up the collar of his coat, the jagged edges almost touching his high cheekbones, and proceeded to advance over the ‘floating’ timber labyrinth to the ships. ‘The East Wind’ was the biggest of them, standing upright at the end of the line, towering over all the others before it. The moment it came into view, Irene and Greg turned to him, looking for matching frowns of worry at the torn bright teal sails, a monstrous black kraken painted messily over the greatest of them. 

“They’re here!” Sebastian exclaimed, climbing down from the mast where he was perched up. The rest of the pirates cheered, excited cries raining down as the four of them approached the platform to the deck.

They stopped at the other side of the overpass, when Victor approached it from the other side and opened his arms wide. “Let’s get this shit started.” He said, the manic grin over his face matching the arrogant smugness from those currently perched over the railing in an attempt to see the exchange.

E. remained at the centre of the deck, an immobile object amongst the anticipating chaos around her. She stood in her baggy white clothes, her eyes almost obscured by her vibrant locks and gaze fixated solely on Sherlock’s. “Finally.” She commented, barely loud enough to hear among the commotion, yet it fell on the rebel’s skin like a blade. The sting heightened once he noticed what she was carrying on her left hand. He didn’t particularly want to dwell on the last time he had seen that sword, or the reason why she had it now.

“You brought the whole royal gang to meet us?” Trevor asked, showing shark white teeth as he came to stand behind his captain. “I feel so honoured.” He took off his hat and bowed down; making the other rascals laugh and throw obscene comments at them. The silver-gazed glared; with Irene and Greg at his back as Sally stood away from the bridge in wait of confrontation.

“Did you bring it?” E. asked, her cold voice managing to travel all the way to the other side, perfectly clear in her intention. Sherlock stood up straight, displaying his tall form in defiance, his features hardening at the nerve she had to ask him about the wand when he didn’t see her part of the reluctant bargain anywhere.

“Where is he?” He asked. The expressions on his enemies’ faces not conveying about the king’s whereabouts. Irene placed a hand over his shoulder in support, but he forcefully shook it off. He was not here to be mollycoddled. They would give John up unharmed or there would be no hesitation on his part to destroy them all. Perhaps in Auradon it was a different matter, but right now John needed him. Not as a prince or a royal; not even as a friend. He needed him as he was. And if nothing else, Sherlock knew how to play himself perfectly, and he would rather jump into the poisonous crashing wavesbelow than to fail at returning a silver of the salvation that the blonde had brought him.

E. must have noticed his face, for her eyebrows drew in a frown while she studied him. “The wand, did you bring me the wand like I asked?” She explained, Seb snorting in amusement at her assuaging tone. 

“Where’s John?” The violet haired boy insisted, the attempts to settle his breathing proved futile after a few seconds, but his hard expression didn’t change. He knew Irene and Greg were fuming behind him, but at the moment, the inconsequential fact got lost among all the other things demanding focus. His razor eyes cutting through every movement in front of him.

“Oh, down to business already?” Sebastian added. He retrieved a small hammer that he treated as treasure, the only relic left from his believed _‘inheritance’_. “Where’s the fun in that?” He said, waving the object around and cracking a smile in their direction.

“I don’t care.” Sherlock sighed. “And put that away, you’re not going to scare anybody with that stupid hammer,” He directed at Sebastian, whose smug grin fell from his face when he realised the rebel wasn’t impressed. “Or is it stupid Friday again, already?” Perhaps it was foolish of him to believe they all could be smart about the situation, the task apparently too great for some of them to perform.

“Don’t worry; we can chat.” Victor said, pacing towards them. “We’re taking _very_ good care of your lover boy.” The muscles in Sherlock’s jaw hardened, and he noticed Lestrade make a hesitant attempt at breaking into a run and attacking the amused smirk right off the ginger’s face. He halted at the last moment. “Perfect hosts, promise.” Trevor showed his hands, gestured in faux good intentions. The rebel felt apprehension run through his veins.

“Forgive me if I don’t take your word for it.” He said, ready to bring war should they fail to keep their end. 

“Alright.” The other boy said. He tilted his head to the side and pouted. “You used to be more fun than this, Sherl.” The arm that he reached over to the violet-haired boy was quickly stopped by a forceful hand wrapped around his wrist. Sherlock’s fingers scorching the skin beneath, and the rebel would be lying if he said he didn’t enjoy every second he could spoil the other’s amusement. Victor regarded him, his eyebrows rose when he found stubborn relentlessness inside the boy’s mercury eyes. “Bring him over boys.” The order directed at some of the the pirates present, while his gaze didn’t leave the violet-haired’s expression. 

After a few moments, Sherlock saw a stupid beanie covering a blonde head appearing from the stairs. John was being dragged up by two muscular men, with his hands tied behind his back and Greg’s dark jacket terribly askew over his sturdy frame. Sherlock resisted the urge to react, trying hard to school his expression lest all the emotion would come forth and land before his enemies’ feet. The king’s eyes landed immediately on him, as if he had been looking for them, and for them only, since climbing those steps. The blonde’s gaze was impossible to decode, but just watching it made Sherlock’s hands curl up into fists. The burning emotion at seeing him captured mixing terribly with the soft undercurrent of relief at _seeing him_. Overall, he appeared unharmed, but Sherlock knew better than to theorise before obtaining every truth. Trevor walked back to the ship and pushed John forward, closer to the rail of the deck. “See?” He said, “I told you, dull as always.” Victor placed a strong arm over the royal’s shoulder, John’s eyes changing at the gesture and narrowing sideways in annoyance.

“John?” Ignoring all the others, Sherlock said. A simple question of reassurance more than anything else. The king of Auradon may not have been part of the negotiation, and he probably wouldn’t be on board even if he _were_ aware of his plan; but the rebel still waited for John to, at the very least, confirm to be unharmed. The blonde nodded.

Sebastian stumped his heavy boots to the royal, sneering at him before turning to regard the violet haired boy. “Done?” He asked as he crossed him arms.

“Let’s get on, shall we?” Victor said from the other side of John, his eyes brimming with excitement. His full attention fixed on Sherlock as he pushed the king towards the opening in the railing that ended on a short plank. “Your boyfriend didn’t think you’d actually do it, you know?” He stepped behind the royal, rattling the fickle wood with his heavy stepping and cherishing every time John winced at the unbalance at its end. “Tried to defend your honour quite a few times.” Sherlock could imagine how that conversation had gone, he would have liked to watch John search for scraps of decency in the rebel’s character as the other conveyed the undeniable truth of why the list of such was so short. “But look at you now, you’re actually doing it.” The ginger’s coat was fluttering behind him with the wind while he stood smiling. To his right, Sherlock could feel the girl’s eyes fixed solely on him, but he couldn’t help to listen to Victor’s words; words that John appeared to have internalised, no matter how much he didn’t want to. The pirate leaned in and spoke softly at the blonde’s ear. “I would be very flattered, your majesty.”

“ _‘Flattered’_ is not the word.” John’s flat tone and expression were locked, completely tightened as he fought against the emotion in his face, reminding the rebel of their fight back in the Enchanted Forest.

“Sounds like you’re in trouble, Sherl.” Victor commented at seeing this exchange, the corner of his mouth curling up as he gestured his disapproval at the boy. Had John not been in danger, Trevor would already be battling with creatures at the bottom of the ocean for calling him that. “I understand though.” The pirate then turned to the others behind him, widening his arms for them to watch closely what Sherlock was about to do. As if marking the moment as evidence. “You giving the whole kingdom away.” He said, “How do you think it will look if the king lets his villain lover exchange the wand and safety of his people to save his own skin?” An outraged cry came from between Greg’s teeth behind him. The urge to shut him up brimming within his friends. The only thing worse than watching John close his eyes in an attempt to stop the words from swirling into his skull was the fact that he was right. “Anything that happens now will be on you.” He directed his shark smile at him, and laughed when the blonde refused to react. “What will the people of Auradon think?” 

“Luckily, I don’t give a damn about what any of them think.” Sherlock perched in, his hands inside the pockets of his great coat, as his haughty eyebrows stayed on with disinterest. The revolution inside his guts was put in the back burner. It may still brim beneath his skin, and it may continue to do so forever, but the violet haired refused to let them think of him as the helpless lamb in this situation.

“No one?” Seb’s nasal voice added, a chuckle at the end of the sentence as if his little brain could actually form a thought complex enough to even fathom the tidal waves that John’s opinion brought with him. Still, it wasn’t as if it mattered in any way, the outcome from this would be one and John would just have to accept it.

“Just give me John.” Sherlock demanded, reaching forward his hand as if magic could still be propelled from it. An overt show of a choice, peace or war would be decided on whether they returned the king with no damage but that of a bruised ego.

Victor laughed, as if the notion were absurd, but was interrupted by E. A voice seeming to originate from the depths of the ocean and carrying its vast oblivion with it. “Wand first.” She said, her mouth barely moving as her gaze peered from between strands of fluttering hair dancing in the wind.

“I know how this works.” The silver-gazed shook his head, finding it hard to believe they could actually be as naive as to think he wouldn’t see through the obvious betrayal. “I’ll give you the wand, and you’ll throw him to the sharks anyway.” He said, as he saw a stunted smile form over the other’s lips. It looked _proud_. 

“You need motivation?” Victor said as he grabbed John from behind, circling a strong arm over his neck and leaning him towards the water below. “Look at his face. How long you think _she_ will remain patient?” John actually seemed a tiny bit scared, but mostly enraged, the rebel saw no other way than to give in into their demands, if only for a few moments.

“Greg.” He said, as he extended his hand for the bag. Lestrade hesitated and grimaced when Sherlock turned around to asses what was stalling him. 

Greg’s gaze shifted between Irene and the rebel, “But you-” He started, yet Sherlock stopped him and insisted with his hand. His friend sighed and reached his strong arms to hand him the backpack. The boy fished out the wand and presented it.

There was a deep silence as the wand was regarded by the others. The glowing sparks released from it disappearing like a flare as the magic evaporated into the atmosphere. Thirteen cycles had been since any magic was seen inside the dome, only working due to its similarity to the spell which plunged the island into darkness and desolation. Molly had truly outdone herself. 

“Here it is.” He said, while the pirates slowly broke out of the shock and proceeded to cheer at their impending victory. E.’s oceanic eyes finally fixated on something other than Sherlock, leaving him feeling oddly bereft at being released from her penetrating presence even for a few moments. “But first —the king.” He drew back the wand, ashe smiled. “Release him and you’ll get what you want. We can all go our separate ways.” The rebel chose to ignore completely the confused look John was giving him. The air traveling to his lungs becoming heavier once he noticed how hurt the blonde appeared. It seemed Sherlock would never stop letting him down. 

Sebastian approached, eager to snatch the wand even if the magic shock would fry his mortal hand the instant his skin made contact. The curly-haired straightened his spine; E. may have her crew and her oceans, but he was a force of his own too. The vibrant purple of his locks only highlighting the determined look on his expression. He needed no magic to be what he was. He was a villain; revelling in the fun of doing something completely wrong. A delight unmatched by any of the present. He offered up the wand, leaning forward as Seb was but moments away from grabbing it.

“No.” E. spoke. Sucking the sound out from the scene and saving Seb from severe harm as everyone halted around her. Her feet started moving, carrying her to the middle of the overpass as the tip of the sword scratched the wood as it dragged behind her, Sebastian only managing to stumble away as he ran back into the ship. “Too easy.” She said, and Sherlock drew back as if offended by her doubt. “Test it, Sherlock. I want to see it work.”

The violet-haired laughed. Smirking amusedly at her calculating expression. She was right to suspect a trick from him, to roam her ever-knowing gaze over Sherlock’s careless willingness to discard a whole kingdom; all the while not realising the closer she looked, the less she saw.

Victor stepped behind his captain, expression as earnest in making him prove himself for them. A delusion that Sherlock might be putting on a show for his sake. “And nothing too big, or blondie is fish bait.” He said. 

The silver-eyed boy turned his head to John, whose pleading gaze conveyed a million layers of meaning. The royal struggled against his bonds as two pirates made sure he couldn’t move closer to the deck, confining him on a wooden board with sure death down below to one side and them on the other. “Alright.” Sherlock said, twisting his body around and coming face to face with Irene and Greg, both of whom wore similar expressions. Lestrade’s hands clenched into fists while the indigo-haired girl crossed her slender arms over her chest. They stood terrified but with matching resigned frowns. Ready to advance once E. got what she wished. Sherlock payed no mind to their faces and sighed. “Always so dreadful.”

He twisted around once more and pointed the wand into the distance as he closed his eyes, burning streams exploring his body as the magic found an outlet through him. The wand in his pale hand sparkled more viciously, and in a moment there was a big light blasting from the tip ashis mercurial eyes opened and the spell was casted.

For a second, nothing happened. The heads of those present turning and searching for a change when the wood beneath their feet began to turn black. The colour swirling across the deck and climbing the beams until the ship was covered completely and the sails had transformed from black and teal into bright purple with Sherlock’s name spelled all over them. Once all surprised eyes landed on him again, the rebel blew smugly at the tip of the wand and smirked at them. Despite the slight annoyance, the crew erupted in delight at the display, their hopeful expressions craving the power for themselves.

E. smiled softly in what Sherlock could mistake for satisfaction. “Bring it over.” She said, and the rebel stepped innocently to her. Both figures now face to face at the centre of the bridge. He offered up the wand, only to snatch it back before her reaching arm could grasp it. His raised eyebrow conveying exactly his intention. The girl nodded at Victor without hesitation.

“I never get to have any fun.” The ginger muttered as he all but dragged John away from the plank and into the overpass with them. The royal was not pleased, ignoring the rough treatment as he stared incredulous at the rebel, his deep blue eyes brimming with so much repressed rage; he almost didn’t hear when Sebastian grabbed the chance to convey to him all the threats he had drawn up for his family once they arrived to Auradon. 

“Sherlock, no!” The king yelled. The hole inside the violet-haired boy’s stomach growing at the sound of his name. “You don’t have to do this, it will only make it worse.” John explained, as he was shoved to the hard wood of the bridge. “I’ll stay with them and we’ll solve this another way.” His kneeling position made the pleading in his voice heighten its intensity. The words he spoke predictable as Sherlock struggled not to fall into them anyway.

“I’m afraid I can’t do that.” He said, turning his gaze away from the other’s face and grabbing the front of the stupid jumper the king was wearing underneath the jacket. Presenting the wand with the remaining hand.

“Eurus,” The blonde said, a gasp echoing around the ship at the mention of her true name. “I promise you’ll have what you want, just stop this.” Sherlock turned his head down in surprise, his eyebrows drawing together at the confidence in which John uttered said promise. The royal’s expression softened at his confusion while the rebel recognised the dire need to get him out as swiftly as the situation allowed. He was reminded of the danger in which the blonde was of being ‘recruited’ by her.

“Oh, silly king,” Eurus said, smiling down at him as Sherlock took a step further, preparing to tug John to him and drag him away. “I already do.” The words seemed to seal something as she snatched the wand and let go of the hold she had on the royal; making the both of them stumble back and almost land on their arses over the bridge. 

“Sherlock,” John said as the other sprang into action and ripped the bonds from his body. “I don’t understand,” He said. “How could-” Mumbling, confused and shocked while Eurus retreated back to the ship, the sword still dragging behind her. “What have you done?” The king asked when he was finally free of the ropes and fixed his gaze into Sherlock’s.

“Gave her the wand.” The rebel explained. Conveying nothing more than those four words.

“But-” John said, tugging at the other’s purple shirt in a plea to negate what he had just witnessed. “This isn’t you.” There was a hint of broken-heartedness laced with his words. “You wouldn’t-” He started. 

“It’s fake.” Sherlock cut him off, disinterested eyes staring at the handsome face of John Watson.

“What happens if the dome—wait what?” The blonde backtracked as he processed the words the other said amidst his frantic rambling. The violet-haired’s face breaking into a big grin.

“The wand,” He explained. “It’s a fake.” The sounds of small explosions not managing to rise over his amused words. “Stolen right from under Anderson’s nose.”

John stared stupefied, “But the ship and the magic-” He asked, his expression growing hopeful by the minute as the fondness in his eyes developed when they gazed into the kaleidoscope irises in front of him. 

“Locked.” The rebel said. “Molly, provided the magic and placed a safe spell on it, only I can control it.” 

“Oh God,” John exclaimed, elated.“You cock!” He said, and Sherlock laughed freely as Eurus and her crew struggled against the fumes of the smoke bombs. “I actually thought you-” The blonde’s eyes turned regretful, but Sherlock waved the notion away as ridiculous. “How?” John asked. 

The collar of the boy’s coat framed his mischievous face perfectly. “Answers only to my genetic code.” He said, his eyes squinting in mirth as he waited for John’s continued amazement. 

What he got instead was the hope falling from the blonde’s face as quick as it had arrived. “Oh, no.” He uttered, turning his gaze to where the pirates were learning to navigate around the smoky traps. “This is bad.” He said. “We need to get it back.” John’s hands started to shake as he struggled against Sherlock to try and reach the overpass once more. “We need-”

“John, relax.” The silver-gazed said, grabbing his wrists in order to control the panic he saw on the other. “They can’t-” He assured, but John shook his head and attempted to push him aside.

“No, you don’t understand, Mike has been lying to you,” He said, “To both of us.” His voice breathless even above the crashing of the waves on the rocks. The rebel felt his heart rate increase, anticipating news that could only be devastating. “He _does_ know where she came from,” John continued, a pained look taking hold of his face. “She is your sister.” Sherlock heard nothing after that.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And I'm back with another chapter.
> 
> Let me know what you think.


	9. Chapter 8: Forgery As An Attitude

 

 

 

 

 

> Forgery. The action of producing a deceitful   
>  or false copy of an official document, signature or  
>  object of great value. Useful, because nothing  
>  fools an idiot like creating the illusion of  
>  expense when the truth is worthless.

 

 

The world seemed to go quiet for John, if only for a moment. Sherlock’s face impossible to read as the younger boy looked down at him with questions in his mercurial eyes. Frozen expression never changing as he tried to process the information, only to come out blank. The blonde grabbed the boy’s shoulders, ready to catch him should he topple over, but the other barely registered the gesture, so imprisoned inside the unbalanceable equations. John lowered his sight —mere swift moments stretching as if they lasted hours and the world beyond them had grown incredibly slow— and he noticed Sherlock’s hands were shaking. 

The king looked in concern, yet his blue irises turned towards the growing commotion around. Agitation seeping through his pores as the pirates were starting to learn how to navigate and attack around the coloured smoke; the diversion that would soon be equal to naught in the attempt to stall them. “Sherlock,” He urged, turning his head towards the violet-haired and finding only confusion peering back at him. Across the far end of the bridge standing on the black ship’s deck Eurus stared at the wand, her calculating gaze caressing its surface as her intention to use it drew too close for comfort to John. 

“Sherlock!” He repeated, a last attempt to rouse the other from the impossibility. Doom was closing in on them, and without Sherlock they were at an even worse disadvantage. The rebel gasped suddenly, startling even the royal who was anxiously awaiting for a response, shifting his attention between him and what was happening at the deck. The unexpected movement from the other feeling like the first breath drawn after an eternity of being underwater. The grey in the other’s eyes darted around, taking in every detail of the situation as it quickly developed around them.

“The wand,” The rebel whispered and took off, making John nearly land on his arse as he was shoved aside. Sherlock frantically navigated around several pirates, the sleeve of his coat over his nose in order to avoid the deep stench choking the others under a big green cloud. John watched him go for a moment, bewildered by the sudden motion. His head turned, helplessly watching the scene unfolding as if on a screen. 

He could see Greg at the distance, strong arm supporting him on a beam as he pitched sacks filled with reactants towards the ship, causing the targets to scatter and seek refuge. Next to him, almost in defensive, Sally skilfully fought back a couple of thugs with a sword —John didn’t particularly had time to wonder how on earth she had come to be there.

When he looked back at the bridge, he caught Irene’s gaze, as she did her best to swerve away from an attack of Seb’s hammer. Her olive eyes darted between him and Sherlock’s coat now getting lost inside the sea of enemies across the bridge; torn between reacting to the threat before her, but not wanting to lose sight of the rebel. The king could sympathise completely. A part of him questioned whether he had suddenly been turned invisible to all the others, as he stood undisturbed at the centre of such chaos, and wondered if perhaps he should look for one of those fencing swords the others had. But one last look at the indigo-haired girl cleared all doubt. Sword fighting was not his job there.

John’s heartbeat echoed inside his own skull, fear gripping him by the throat as he tore his gaze away from the girl and focused ahead, noting he could barely see Sherlock anymore. He ran, using his hat to protect himself from the fumes and hoping the heavy boots would not hinder his usual fast sprint. 

However, the violet-haired boy’s legs were longer and he had had a significant head start; soon he disappeared from sight. The blonde pushed harder, his calves burning from the strain, yet he kept going. He barely even stopped when a pirate approached him, sword in hand and ready expression planted on his way to Sherlock. John turned ocean blue eyes up, and smiled softly when he noticed that the other’s height made him no favours with a stance such as the one he had taken. Thankfully, John had always been good — _captain_ -good— at Tourney and effortlessly smashed all his body’s weight unto the man’s legs, making him lose balance in a moment and sending him reeling backwards. The blonde left the stumbling man behind and followed his path towards where he’d seen the rebel get swallowed by the commotion of loading cannons, careful not to get blasted by smoking projectiles or stray swings of blades; managing to stay mostly hidden from recognition. There wouldn’t be a higher price for a pirate than to harm the King of Auradon, and he didn’t want them getting any ideas.

John finally caught sight of purple curls in between the ocean of people, pushing idiots aside to get to Eurus. The girl stood at the centre of the deck, unconcerned by the battle around her; her baggy clothes hung over her thin frame as she raised her arm and pointed the wand to the sky. A formidable figure with light shining on her face from the sparks casted by magic. 

The blonde ran faster, pushing all his weight behind the steps as he frantically sought to reach her before she had the chance to place any sort of spell over the island or Auradon alike, but Sherlock got to her first. His leather coat flaring out behind him while he flung himself to her; his body colliding against hers and sending them both crashing unto the hard wood of the deck as a burst of light was emitted by the wand. A great thunder roared from the clouds above them, enough to make several of the fighters get distracted by its sheer volume; Sherlock and Eurus both looked up, twin pale eyes staring at the swirling haziness of the dome starting to disappear from over their heads. Even from afar, the royal could recognise the disbelief on Sherlock’s face at seeing his failure being carried out in such a manner, outrage painting his handsome features as he launched his body to grapple for the hold she had on the wand.

John struggled to keep his attention on the rebel as another miscreant blocked his line of sight when he decided he would try to skewer a king. A pig-faced boy who could not haven been much older than himself, waved a thin blade in his direction in an obvious attempt to make up for his terrible aim; yet the blonde boy had no time for petty fights with nameless pirates, his priority solely on making sure both the wand _and_ Sherlock were out of the sea witch’s clutches. He swerved another attack from the man to his left and escaped the reach of his arm to get away with just a few scratches while he moved towards the two figures struggling on the ground. 

The violet-haired had managed to wrap his spidery fingers around the wand, and tugged it free from the other’s hold, allowing himself a tiny moment of victory until Eurus hand scratched at his wrist to get it back when he lifted his arm. With a triumphant expression, the rebel looked up and was about to wave the wand to close the crumbing dome when John saw the girl raise her other hand and move the blade of a dragon sword towards Sherlock’s stomach.

All other sound faded away, John couldn’t even think past his own breathing as he flung his body forward. Sharp pain running through his arm when the palm of his hand was sliced as he pushed it off course. The silver-gazed boy was pushed back at the impact and his fist opened to let the wand roll over across the deck when he fell; the girl let out an enraged cry as she struggled to get the king off of her.

Sherlock’s face was paler than the blonde had ever seen it, as his expressive eyes landed on the threat of what could have happened, only to turn even more terrified as he stared at his left hand, now bereft of the one artefact that would be able to revert the disaster. His gaze turned to John for a moment and seemingly made a decision as he reluctantly turned away and shoved a black haired pirate away in search for the wand. 

A huge cloud of yellow exploded to their right, hindering the king’s sight of Sherlock moving as John clutched the girl’s wrists and attempted to subdue her into immobility. The tears rolling down his cheeks from the smoke remaining ignored when he picked up the dragon sword and pointed it at her. 

After a few moments the king was looking down at the Leviathan’s daughter. At Sherlock’s _sister,_ and was quite floored at the resemblance. She made no move to get up, happy to lay on the wood, indifferent of the blade resting on her collarbone and grinning through the blood running down her nose. John decided not to think about that sight.

From across the rail of the ship, he could watch Greg and Sally team up against quite a large gang, struggling to keep up with the attacks but mostly winning, a few pirates going into the water. Irene, however, wasn’t doing so well, —athletics having never been her strength— but John was helpless to the situation at the moment. He found he was as trapped in this arrangement as Eurus was. Which was, of course, cue for Victor to come showing his smug face.

His ginger hair shined strangely under the growing rays of sunlight passing through the receding magical dome. “The _doormat king_ finally decided to act?” He asked, his face breaking apart into a big smile. Looking at John as if he were actually impressed by the events. Arsehole. “I’m gonna have to ask you to step away.” The blonde could feel the pirate’s sword rest at the centre of his chest, digging slightly to ensure the point got across.

John raised a hand in innocence, slowly withdrawing his own blade away from the girl on the floor. His blue eyes stared with hatred at Victor, but darted further back behind him, feeling himself smile at what he saw. “You were wrong, you know?” The royal commented, revelling in the confused brows under the other’s black hat. “I told you you were wasting your time.”

“Oh, John.” A deep voice said from behind Trevor. “He’s always been an idiot.” 

Victor turned around to find a smirking Sherlock, his violet curls restless with the wind as he thrusted the flaring wand upwards and sent a wave of flashing light towards the sky. The rays of light disappearing from the furious expressions on the other’s faces as the atmosphere clouded over, and the dome closed above them completely once more.

John didn’t waste a moment, —even if he could tell Sherlock was basking in satisfaction— and grabbed the silver-gazed boy’s wrist to start running. Victor and Eurus following closely behind them; but the blonde pushed through, almost dragging the rebel behind him, with the sole focus of not getting stabbed while getting away.

Bursts of colours still exploded near them, and some pirates attempted to push them off the bridge as they were crossing, but they managed to get to the other side of it. Leaving black and purple sails behind as they swiftly traveled up the wooden structure. When they encountered Irene, Sherlock was quick to grab her by the shoulders and pull her into their frantic run, snapping a big chain over her attacker with the magic the wand provided for him. She directed grateful olive eyes at him and followed them as quickly as her limping ankle allowed her. Greg practically carried the indigo-haired girl when he and Sally caught up to them; the five of them swerving and escaping what was now a stampede lead by Trevor as the rotten wood vibrated under them; threatening to collapse at any moment. 

They crossed the overpass leading to the tunnel, a recognisable expression of unease crossing Sherlock’s face while they were suspended over open water with feeble wood as their only support. The rebel’s boots made contact with the metal of the tunnel towards freedom and the other four rushed past him as he lingered back, his silver eyes watching the structure closely, a frowning face as Victor and Eurus approached the beginning of the crossing. Sherlock pushed the wood with his feet, pressing until the whole platform dislodged and the bridge came crumbling down and crashed in pieces unto the water. Obliterating their only way of crossing. He stared at them, his chest heaving with exertion as the corners of his mouth curled upwards and his eyes dissipated the faint green hue previously growing in them.

Eurus seethed, allowing uncontrolled rage inside grow to previously unseen heights. “What’s my name!?” She demanded, only to grow more manic when she received only blinking from the rebel across. “What’s my name!?” She banged Victor’s chest in frustration. Once he confusedly answered, her emotion evaporated, replaced by complacency. She gazed back into Sherlock’s eyes, somehow confident in defeat, and let out a deep guttural laugh, a sound that followed all of them until they had come outfrom the other side of the tunnel.

 

 

* * *

 

 

For Sherlock, the voices in the tunnel faded away quickly. Not carrying enough weightin his mind to shake him out of the trance in which he was trapped. Eurus at the other side of the fallen bridge with no reason to be mirthful, yet laughing as if she were victorious in some unseen war he couldn’t recognise. His laboured breathing came back down into regular frequency, but the gaping hole inside his stomach for not knowing what exactly was happening remained.

“Sherlock!” He heard a faint call coming from the other end of the tunnel, perfectly attuned as he was to John’s soft voice by now. The rebel was loathe to leave, to once again part without the answers he required as he took a step back from the edge and retreated across the channel. Moriarty’s threat had been bad enough, and now the sister he didn’t know he had was laughing and he didn’t understand why.

He took sure steps back, and soon he was on the other side too. John smiling at him from the entrance, covered in bursts of various colours from the smoke bombs, with no right to impose his blue eyes on his figure. What Sherlock hated the most was the fact that he couldn’t, for the life of him, dismiss them. He jumped from the platform and hurried to the centre of the parking lot, the others already waiting for their arrival to board the vehicle.

“You okay?” Greg turned to Irene, assessing her figure with his gaze. She limped and waved away the fussing the other man was making at her injured ankle. 

“Yeah, I’m good.” She said, he words coming out strained as she was placed on the backseat of the car. Sally Donovan looked on in what appeared to be concern as she hauled up the strap of the quiver filled with the swords to rest comfortably on her shoulder. Her both feet shuffled next to the passenger’s door, displaying an anxiety that had never before been on her smooth brow. The rebel had often found her easy to deduce, —an open book, really— yet this was an emotion he believed was more tightly bound to her core than all others. The first encounter with real fear could bring that out of someone. But still she looked as if that concern angered her more than anything else.

Lestrade, oblivious to anything of importance, —as usual— continued without hesitation. “Nice work out there, Sally.” He said, impressed smile beaming at her as her expression went from furious at herself to pleased once more. She loaded the swords in the trunk and snapped the lid closed, her face now displaying a smirk. The violet-haired boy rolled his eyes and stood back in impatience.

“Let’s go.” John said from his left, still quite eager to get away from there. Grabbing the boy’s shoulder to guide him back to the car and doing his best to avoid looking at the rotting walls around them for a moment longer. 

He must have noticed Sherlock reluctance to advance, because he stopped and turned to face him with such depth in his eyes the rebel had to turn away in order to ignore it. Leaving John behind once had been hard enough, but he was still hesitant to go back there. Torn at his situation after having found the Isle, as well as Auradon, felt foreign to him now; as if he were a stray piece from a completely different jigsaw puzzle. “You can’t stay here,” John said, both his hands now holding his arms, his face earnest in his motive. “Not with her.” He was right, Sherlock knew he was right, but his calculations were not in favour of that course of action. “Please.” The blonde pleaded, shattering the last of the rebel’s defences. Sherlock nodded, figuring he would at least escape Eurus’ wrath, even if her laughter would stay imprinted on him.

They boarded the back of the car, the both of them sitting across Irene, as Sally and Greg took the front seats. The violet haired looked out the window, feeling the royal’s blue eyes on him, attempting to ignore the girl awkwardly acting as if she didn’t exist and weren’t intruding on the conversation hanging over them.

“I’m really sorry that things didn’t go the way you wanted them to.” John said, worry lines appearing over his young face. Apologising even when he had been the one abducted by stupid pirates.

Sherlock shook his head, “I mean,” he said. “As long as you’re safe, that’s…” He trailed off, but hoped the king understood the sentiment otherwise too paramount to express. “What you did for me back there…” He sighed and stared at the other, the look of fondness and hurt reflected back at him killing him a tiny bit inside. He flicked his grey eyes to John’s palm, were a deep gash was still oozing a bit of blood, “That was good.” He said, knowing the wound made by a dragon sword wouldn’t be able to be cured by any sort of magic.

John smiled softly, making the chaos in the genius’ stomach calm into just small flutters. “At least I got to see the Isle.” The blonde commented, his disheveled hair and dark jacket —which was a size too big— made him appear even younger paired with the disenchanted look over his expression. The state of the Isle clearly hitting hard at his perceived failure to fulfil his responsibilities as monarch. “I learnt a lot in my captivity.” He said.

Sherlock frowned, not entirely sure whether he was supposed to laugh or worry at such comment. “You were captive one night.” He reminded him, his silver eyes searching the other’s figure for clues as to his meaning.

The king shrugged, “Enough to realise they’re my people too.” He said; an unfamiliar tone laced around the sentence. “Eurus helped me see that.”

The violet-haired boy gaped, “John,” He said, “Eurus _abducted_ you.” His insistence was completely justified, the royal often spent far too much time worrying on whether he could one day be a good and empathic king, yet Sherlock refused to sympathise with someone who had meant to harm him just to gain leverage.

“She’s an angry girl with a bad plan.” The other replied, the yellow dust over the left side of his face accentuating the frown over his brow. “That’s not so different from when you first came to Auradon.”

The violet-haired reeled back. The air inside the car, now traveling through the barrier, became much too stuffy. He was completely aware he was rotten beyond salvation, but he needed John to see that sort of mental corruption was not in his capacity. Not in his nature. “I’ve done horrible things, but when have I _ever_ done something bad to you?” He demanded.

“You spelled me with love cookies and conspired to steal the wand to overthrow me from the throne.” The blonde offered, with no real animosity contained in his words. However, to Sherlock they fell on his chest like an elephant’s weight, caging him into the leather.

“Apart from that.” He said stroppily, knowing the argument was over, no matter how much he wanted to rectify what had happened. John looked ready to say something else, yet he seemed to change his mind at the last moment and remained silent the rest of the trip. Sherlock settled into his seat too, all the while being too distracted to notice something was missing from his coat pocket.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The trip back to Auradon went by fairly quickly, yet the silence was not doing any favours to the tense atmosphere inside the vehicle. The five of them almost jumped out of the car the second it parked in front of the castle. 

“I’ll take this back to the gym.” Sally said, as she hiked up the quiver of swords out of the trunk. Her shoulders showing a satisfied line at her involvement in the rescue. It had gone sideways in the middle, but they had gotten the king back, and the Isle was left behind in confinement as it belonged.

“Why don’t you drop by practice later?” Greg replied. His mouth quirking up as she halted her strolling to stare at him in surprise.

“In the mood to break some rules?” She asked, her eyes already brimming with hope, basking in the upcoming revelation; aware that just a few days prior she would have thought there was absolutely no upside to having three villain kids roaming around carelessly in the realm. But it turned out Lestrade was actually useful, and Irene was not as annoying as she had previously believed. Sherlock, however, was another matter altogether.

Greg scoffed at her and answered. “No.” He said, smiling as if he couldn’t believe she had thought such a thing. Sally sighed, but nodded nonetheless. She turned away and with sure steps, walked towards the school building leaving the others behind.

 

* * *

 

 

The sun was in full swing by now, seeming all the brighter at the stark contrast of the nebulous island. At the gates, waiting impatiently, stood Mycroft with Molly, wearing matching frowns of worry and relief —even if the degrees of such varied between expressive and stoic— and watched as the group approached the foyer. 

“My King,” Mycroft was the first to speak. Taking several steps closer to them and nodding his head in Sherlock’s direction; however the rebel didn’t feel particularly in the mood for his brother to act concerned now.

“Hey, bro!” He greeted, the stretching smile on his face not reaching his silver eyes. He could tell the ginger was thrown by the acidic tone, but he believed the hurt on his part was justified. “Well as it turns out, I have a secret sister.” Sherlock said, only to watch all the colour drain from his brother’s face.

“What-” Mycroft asked. His eyes wide for a second, only for him to replace the bewildered expression for one of practicality. “How did you-?” He started, but the violet-haired was at the end of his rope, and had no time for the advisor to try and fit the pieces together.

“I didn’t,” He said, “John did.” The frown over his brows smoothed out in a brief line of pride at his —not quite— John’s brain power. Above average at the least. “Then the wand I spelled to work for my genetic composition confirmed it.” He explained, and despite knowing Mycroft couldn’t have possibly known how exactly he was hindering his plans, his silence had still managed to endanger the most important thing, the safety of the kingdom ultimately inconsequential.

The royal advisor did look a bit regretful at the role he had played on the threat to the realm, yet his features spoke of a greater variable. “You have no idea what you’re dealing with.” He insisted, the knuckles on the hand clutching his umbrella turning white. “None at all.”

Sherlock crossed his thin arms and stared at the other. “Specially if I didn’t know a sister even existed, correct?” He said, his face never losing the stern lines despite the various colours smeared unto his skin from the bombs. He watched Molly standing back with the others, fiddling with her dusty blue jumper in apprehension.

“You were three cycles old.” The ginger argued, looking to John for support in the most of rational matters—who had remained at the centre of the discussion yet shifted his feet in silent hesitance from participating—. Mycroft shifted slightly apologetic eyes towards his friend.

“I’ve been here for more than six moon-cycles!” Sherlock demanded, the trembling in his hands impossible to prevent. He was just so sick of people deciding what he had to be or should know, without a single thought spared on his opinion.

The older brother sighed, but his back straightened even more at the other’s verbal onslaught. “I didn’t think you’d be running off back to the Isle first chance you got.”He said, and the violet-haired boy physically reeled back at the comment, his silver eyes quickly shifting away from John’s after seeking his reaction at his brother’s words. “I calculated it to be unnecessary.” The ginger continued through the boy’s distress.

“Well,” Sherlock smiled, an acerbic grin matching the depth of his words. “That was some _great_ miscalculation of yours.” He said, and John finally moved to reach forward and place a comforting hand over his arm.

“Sherlock,” He commented, making most of the other’s anger drain almost instantly; leaving only the wounded expression of his mercurial eyes under the purple fringe at being disregarded by his brother in such a way.

Mycroft noticed the change instantly, “Apologies.” He muttered, although perhaps more for the inconvenience than for not conveying the information in the first place. But you couldn’t really ask for more from someone raised on the Isle, specially someone of the Holmes name. “But she stays there,” He assured, watching the line of Sherlock’s shoulders drop, as the fight in him diminished. “No chance for her to get out.” 

“Fine.” The silver-gazed replied. Nodding once at his brother and stomping away in frustration. Mycroft sighed and smiled thinly at the king, who returned the sentiment with only more intention.

Molly chose that moment to finally step forward and break the tension, impatiently running to the king and wrapping him between thin arms as she hugged him with relief in her expression. “John!” She exclaimed. “I’m so glad you’re okay.” Her hair in the high ponytail too perfect for the situation, only making her appear younger as she beamed at him.

“Don’t worry, Molly,” John assured, smiling at her enthusiasm. “Sherlock saved me again,” He said, as he casted his gaze over to the right, where the rebel observed them closely from a few steps away, “And he told me you helped with the surprise, so thank you too.” The blonde broke his sight away from the boy and returned to the girl as she released him.

“Speaking of surprise, come here.” She gasped, her brown eyes trimmed with excitement at whatever she had remembered. She motioned him to join her and showcased a picture on her phone. “Isn’t it perfect?” She asked, the tone so filled with hope and child-like anticipation that it curdled whatever remained from John’s relieved mood with its contrast. “He’ll love it.” She assured, bouncing on place. The blue-eyed wanted to agree yet looking at said rebel, with crossed arms around his thin frame and uncertain eyes, John didn’t feel as confident anymore.

The blonde stepped away from Molly for a second, oblivious in his concern as to how confused she was at the sudden loss of attention. John leaned towards Sherlock and softly placed a hand over his back. “Do you want to cancel?” He asked, surprised silver eyes looking down at him at the suggestion.

“Uhm,” Molly muttered from behind them, “I can come back later-” She said, anxiously twirling her brunette hair as her friend waited for an answer from the other. “But really, really soon. We need a decision-” Her frantic words rushing from her mouth.

“No, no, it’s fine.” John said, splitting his focus once more as he stared down at her phone. However, a few seconds later he reversed back to Sherlock, his blue eyes searching the other’s face. “Whatever you choose, I’m here for you.” He said, reaching a hand to softly touch the violet-haired’s face. Honesty and the faith of a fool beaming from behind his eyes.

Sherlock found himself nodding, a moment before John reluctantly turned from him and was lead away by Molly. Still taking a few liberties and turning his head every so often, as if he were loathe to tear his gaze away form the other in fear of the rebel disappearing again. 

Sherlock sighed and closed his eyes, air entering his body in short tuffs as his chest shook. Irene appeared at his side and grabbed him by the shoulder. “We need to talk.” She said, now walking perfectly due to Sherlock performing a fixing spell over her ankle earlier in the car. The rebel let himself be dragged, not finding enough intent in him after the conversation with his brother and his —whatever John was to him now.

“No.” Greg said from behind them, halting their movement with stubborn arms crossed over his chest. 

“Excuse me?” Asked the girl with indigo hair, red lips curling down in opposition to the order. Clearly in no way not pleased with the rebel’s intrusion.

“You’re always huddling off into the dark, whispering your schemes and leaving me out of it, and I’m sick of it.” Lestrade explained, his legs in a clear fighter’s stand, not baking down any moment soon. “I’m family too.” His voice carried perfectly to them, Sherlock’s already frayed state worsened at the word. “We’ve been through a lot together,” The older boy continued, “I held your purple hair back while you threw up your drug habit, and I don’t care how much of a _‘fae’_ you are, that was _not_ pretty.” The violet-haired shifted, feeling a faint sliver of scandalised outrage at the implication. He watched the other’s determined expression as he adjusted his gloves. “So everyone sit.” Greg said and proceeded to do just that, in the middle of the garden. His legs crossed as he looked up to them waiting. Irene spared a glance towards Sherlock, but slowly adjusted her short navy dress to take a seat next to Greg. “You too, come on.” He said, until the silver-gazed sighed and plopped down ungracefully to the floor. 

The silence remained as they stared at each other. The unprecedented situation of voicing any and all feelings so foreign to them as to impede them from actually knowing how to start. “So, what’s up, mate?” Greg said, a crystalline expression of bravery over his features.

“I-” Sherlock hesitated, turning his eyes around to try and deduce his way out of actually talking about it. In the end, once he managed to start, it was as if his manic nature would never let him shut off again. “I’m a mess.” He said, expecting pity or dismissal from the others but finding nothing of the sort.“I’m at the bottom of a pit and I don’t know how-” He paused, swallowing back the feeling of his stomach wanting to return the literal _nothing_ he had eaten. “ _If_ I want to climb out.” The rebel continued, while his hands moved as if they had a conscience of their own. “A few moon-cycles ago I was swindling criminals down to their pants and now everybody wants me to be this perfect lord of the court, and I have no idea how to keep up the act.” And wasn’t that the worst thing? His inability to change, to _evolve_ —as Eurus wanted— had always been leading him there. All his world ready to crack open as the universe around him transformed and he remained the same.

“Then don’t.” Greg said, as if it were the easiest concept in the world. As if he hadn’t already exhausted any other options in his frantic search for something that would make him human and found nothing. 

“See,” Sherlock snapped, frowning and now raging for the needless grating the conversation had caused. “This was a waste of my time-” He made to stand up, ready to turn around and disappear into the forest, but Irene’s slender hand caught his arm and attempted to haul him back down.

“Maybe it wasn’t.” She said, her gaze intent over the other’s features. Sherlock frowned in confusion but slowly let himself sit once more, to at least gain an explanation on such ridiculous comment if nothing else. “He’s right, we can’t hide what we were.” The girl explained, the corner of her red-lipped smile arching upwards. “Yes, we did some bad things, but it’s who we are,” Her words seemed to soothe the ire inside the rebel, the rollercoaster of a temper finding a different slope as he realised he hadn’t known how much he had longed for those words. “We’re never going to be like any of them, so why does it matter?” Irene said, drawing a small laugh from Greg, who was nodding in agreement. “We can’t fake it.”

“Specially without my magic.” Sherlock commented, the poisonous edge returning to his voice. Purple curls bouncing over his forehead as he shook his head in animosity.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake! You’ve never needed magic, Sherlock.” Came Lestrade’s exasperated exclamation. Provoking both Sherlock’s and Irene’s eyes to turn to him in surprise. The silver-gazed boy thought he may have finally lost the last of his sanity, now that Greg Lestrade was starting to make perfect, logical sense. “And if magic is a part of you, then who the fuck are any of them to deny it?” The earnest determination in his voice a revelation. He turned to stare right at him, clearly planning to say something he had previously thought he would guard and carry to his grave. “Sherlock, if John doesn’t love the real you, then he’s not the one.” He said, and it was terrifying for Sherlock, just how true and logical it really seemed; as if his failure to navigate anything relating to sentiment and other humans had blinded him to the easiest of truths and actions. But in his case, nothing about it was simple, specially not when it concerned certain blue eyes, and his own inability to be what said eyes saw in him. What they _deserved._

“Just give him a chance.” Greg concluded, presenting forward a previously unexplored concept. The rebel had kept a closed fist over the whole matter, calculating and modifying every single aspect in fear of the situation to start spiralling into chaos if left unsupervised; and now Lestrade wanted him to surrender control and let the king decide with his own truth whether there was actually any place for Sherlock, as he was, in his life. 

“He has a point.” Irene said, placing her hand over his coat-clad shoulder in encouragement. “I’ll tell the tailor to make some adjustments to your suit,” She stood up with a face that spelled a mission. Sherlock felt himself nod without intending to. “And if you want, it’ll be waiting for you in your room.” She strutted away as the heels of her black boots clicked dully over the lawn. 

Greg stood up as well, ready to turn and leave him; but after a couple of hesitant steps he paused and turned back around, crouching next to his seated form with understanding laced upon his face. “Come to Cotillion tonight.” He offered. “And if you try and you find you can’t stand another day, I’ll drive you back there myself.” He said, making Sherlock frown but smile softly despite himself. The older boy dusted off his leather trousers and raised once more, this time completing his intention to retreat and let him be for a while. Allowing him to sit alone and sort his thoughts into arrangement. 

The violet-haired boy stayed there for a moment, contemplating his friends’ words and what he knew to be truth about John and about himself. Before the royal, his life had been easy; never questioning the moral or reason of what he did. Never once caring if what he was suited the opinion or desires of someone else. But he hadn’t _known_. No previous comparable data to employ. Now, more than a blessing, John’s blue eyes had come to turn all his previously builded blocks of reality into rubble and shattered them completely. But he found, after all that gruelling work, two things of him remained, and Sherlock was much too selfish to part with either. No. He had never cared the lengths to which he went in order to get what he wanted, so why should he stop now? 

Sherlock stood up and made his way to his room; he took decided steps forward as he chanted to himself. _‘Into battle’._

 

 

* * *

 

 

After that talk with Sherlock, Lestrade felt the need to go torment some bystanders or even kick some goals in the tourney field. He strolled down the lawn and eagerly popped his knuckles as if in anticipation for something to happen, yet nothing seemed forthcoming. Distractedly, he continued until he saw Molly’s figure making her way to the dorms, excitedly talking to someone on her phone as she usually did now that she was head-planner on the Cotillion committee. 

He marched towards her and placed his strong hands over her shoulders. “Molly?”He said, as she smiled up at him but continued insisting on opera-house napkins over the phone. “Molly!” Greg said once more, until her big brown eyes were fixed on him. “You. Me. Cotillion. Tonight.” His voice dropping an octave at the delivery of the sentence.

“Yeah, sure.” Molly smiled, “We’re all taking a stretch carriage over at six.” The reply was laced with a casualness that Greg definitely did not want present. Not when he was hoping to get his point across without any soppy declarations.

“No, I mean,” He pressed,“ _I’ll_ pick you up.” His mouth turning up in a confident smirk, staring at her in expectation, yet his momentum lost a bit of power when she went on to argue decorations and time tables with the desperate voice coming out of the speaker.

“You want to swing by our room?” She asked, the brunette ponytail swinging as she kept bouncing one of her feet in anxiousness. “Because I haven’t had time to straighten-”

“God!” Greg exclaimed, running an exasperated hand over his face. He figured that perhaps the direct route would be the best option in his situation, no matter how much he wished to avoid saying the words out loud. “I’m asking you to be my date for Cotillion.” He quickly worded, only to watch hesitant understanding dawn over the other’s face, the conversation on her phone forgotten as her hand gripped the devicelimply.

“Oh!” She said, eloquently “Like, umm,” Her stammering was nothing new, but Lestrade would like to skip the confused part. “You mean…?” She started, but was cut off by the other who figured if he didn’t do it right then, he would never get the intention out without the help of Sherlock’s illegal potion. And he so was intent on getting her to agree.

“And if you don’t hate me by the end of it,” He joked, reaching out to lower her hand and snatch away the distraction. “I’d like us to be more.” Greg said as his gloved hand still held the thin wrist.

The girl smiled, causing a grin to form on Lestrade’s face as well. “Like hold hands, and dates, and texting?” She asked, the words almost jumbled together in their haste, already the hopeful expression breaking out over all her face.

“And a bit more than that, yeah.” Greg added, just because he felt it was important to add a bit of personality to cover all the sentimentality of the afternoon; yet Molly didn’t seem to mind in the least. Laughing as she raised shy eyebrows to the suggestion. 

In a fit of spontaneity, she pressed forward and circled her arms around the other in mirth; taking Greg completely by surprise as she hugged him with such warm affection. The boy was frozen at first, but slowly raised his strong arms until they were wrapped around her too.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're almost at the end, I hope you enjoyed it. Let me know what you think.


	10. Chapter 9: The Hatred Of A Lover

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe we're approaching the end, I hope you like it.

 

 

 

 

 

> Hatred or hate, is a human emotion,  
>  and can evoke feelings of animosity  
>  directed against certain individuals,  
>  behaviours or ideas. Often associated with  
>  actions of anger or disgust towards   
>  the source of hostility.
> 
>  

 

The fencing arena was completely empty save for the team at that time of day; specially considering Cotillion was just a few hours away. Yet Lestrade had called his teammates up for an emergency meeting. Their faces looked at him in expectation, confused and impatient to get wind of the news that were so urgent his captain couldn’t wait for any moment other than Friday night —specially with a royal festivity scheduled— to tell them. 

“Bring it in, boys!” He said, motioning them to come closer. “Bring it in!” The others did as he bided, but that didn’t stop the exchanged looks they casted as he smiled at their questioning frowns. “I’m sure it’s safe to say that you all know I come from The Isle,” He said, eyeing the several nods he got in agreement, he was aware some of them were not exactly _thrilled_ by that information —specially Anderson— but mosthad readily accepted the fact after they noticed how talented at sports he was. “Where basically things are all kinds of shit.” A round of laughter followed, to which Greg just chuckled and stuffed his hands inside his pockets. “But there’s actually one thing The Isle’s got on Auradon.” His voice lowered, and the mood changed instantly, all of the others staring with puzzled expressions, clearly not able to imagine one single perk the Isle of The Lost could ever posses against the land realm; thinking it just a barren hellhole. They weren’t exactly wrong, but the rebel knew some people who may disagree with that. “And that is we respect strength,” He concluded, smirking as he saw several faces display intrigue; perhaps some of Auradon citizen’s were hypocritical, pompous snobs as Sherlock would deem them, but he had found true friendship and camaraderie among them too. “No matter where it comes from.”

“Hey, Lestrade!” Anderson said from behind him, his expression incredulous and both his arms crossed over his dusty blue-clad chest, thinking he may have just guessed his purpose. “Hold on, there.” He ordered, laughing phonily as if Greg had any obligation to let him act as if they were _‘mates’_ just because he was a prince. “We don’t break the rules here in Auradon. That’s over _there_ ,” Greg glowered at the tone in which he said the word, and glared at Anderson’s _‘friendly’_ face. “Along with all the rats.” Philip decided, laughing good-naturedly and growing more satisfied by the second as all the others chuckled at his antic.

Lestrade sighed and took out the rule book from his trouser’s pocket. Glad that he had the foresight to bring it with him for this. “ _‘A team will be comprised of a Captain and eight men’_.” He read, smiling in anticipation of the varied reactions he knew were sure forthcoming. Anderson didn’t look impressed, but Greg knew that would change in a minute. “So, say hello to your new Captain.” He said, as Sally Donovan entered the arena, clad in a leader’s fencing garb and carrying a satisfied grin with her.

Lestrade stepped over and placed the whistle around her neck. Perhaps Sally was not exactly his favourite person, —he specially didn’t appreciate her unreasonable loathing towards Sherlock— but he knew a good player when he saw one, and in the last days he had verified how much the kingdom was in dire need on some change. 

“Oh, for God’s sake!” Anderson bemoaned loudly, causing the others to stare at him with even more alarm than that of the fact they now had a female captain. The team clapped, hesitantly at first but then gained volume and some enthusiasm. They presented swords, —as was accustomed to do for their commander, and Greg soon joined in the gesture.

Sally smirked, “Thanks,” She said, turning to watch them all in turn. Philip was standing, his sword still at his side and a snide expression over his face. The dark skinned girl placed her hands on her hips and waited, an eyebrow arching in expectation. Anderson sighed, and reluctantly presented his sword forward. Sally smiled and nodded, while she placed the whistle between her lips. “Now down and give me twenty!” She ordered. The others instinctively turned to Greg, looking for guidance, to which the rebel only gestured to listen to their captain and quickly dropped to the floor in demonstration.

“But-” Anderson started, but stopped when he saw all the others already on board. He scowled at her but knelt down and started pushing up nonetheless. Greg flexed easily, fighting hard to hide the amused smirk from his face at the other boy finally subdued. He thought maybe he should have invited Sherlock for this, nothing brought up his spirits like laughing at people he despised.

“Come on!” Sally said clapping in time, placing a trainer over Philip’s back and applying downward pressure. “Pick it up, Anderson!” She commented, to the delight of the other’s present. Anderson grumbled something unintelligent but kept going through the entire set. Lestrade thought that perhaps Sally’s addition to the team will come with unforeseen upsides.

Once the twenty were done and the whistle blew, the girl dismissed all of them to go and prepare for the evening’s festivities. The bunch of them rushing out of the door as soon as the words left her lips. 

Greg stayed behind, helping arrange the various swords and putting things in order. “Lestrade?” Sally said once they were finished and he turned to leave.

“Yeah?” He asked, halting his pace and turning to regard her. The small genuine smile he recognised on her face the first time he saw anything remotely soft on her expression.

“Wait until I tell my mum.” She said, and bounded out of the room, carrying the whistle and a book on rules and strategies with her. Greg sighed and walked out of the room feeling satisfied for the day _._

 

 

* * *

 

 

A series of hurried, almost frantic knocks came to Irene’s door. Startling her away from the texts in front of her. She frowned, expecting a desperate —perhaps even high— Sherlock at the other side. “Come in.” She said, only to be surprised once more when Janine bursted into her room, her face betrayed and her brown eyes earnest. 

“It’s Cotillion day,” She said as way of explanation, making the indigo-haired girl arch a perfect eyebrow in bemusement. The brunette’s expression turned frustrated when Irene was clearly not following along to her disaster. “I have no date, my dress is a nightmare,” She said, barely pausing to breathe, much less to allow the other girl a word in. “Seriously, _green_ , what was I thinking?” Janine chuckled bitterly, waving her arms around her and making Irene take a slight step back as she watched in equal parts confusion and amusement. “And I’m freaking out!” The royal bemoaned, staring at her friend with pleading eyes, only to change for demanding. “How could you go camping in a time like this?” She asked.

“What?” Puzzled hilarity ensued inside The Woman’s chest. Fighting hard to avoid the desire to outright laugh at the turn of the conversation. _Where the hell_ had she gotten that?

However, the other was not exactly in amused spirits, desperately talking and walking towards the middle of the room with determination in her expression. “Have you suddenly gone mad?” Janine queried, “Don’t tell me you’ll stop all this and just turn all feelings and nature on me-” Her hands were now on her hips, framing the pink skirt she was wearing. Her expression was wild, enough to make the other want to gape at it.

“No, but-” Irene tried to interject, but the rushing speech of the other trampled over her words as she continued with not a care or sign of having heard her.

“Because I need you.” Janine said, placing both her palms on the other’s shoulders.“Sherlock is nowhere to be found,” She said, and Irene found herself frowning at that. _That_ was not supposed to happen, her friend should be at his room, preparing for Cotillion, not wandering off to who knows where. Those words didn’t bode very well for them. 

The brunette, oblivious to the blue-haired’s concern, continued. “And you’re shallow and clever and could get me a date that is in no way related to that idiot Prince of Sherwood Forest.” Janine said, a tone of loathing laced around her words, her brown eyes rolling at the memory. “The bravest knight? Don’t make me laugh.” She let out a derisive chuckle, drawing an amused giggle from her counterpart as Irene watched incredulous to the absurdity of the situation. “Kind of a sissy, in fact.” The brunette continued, her tirade veering out of topic completely. “You should’ve seen-”

“John was captured.” Irene cut her off, a smile graced upon her red full lips as she waited patiently for the information to sink in. “On the Isle.” She explained. “We rescued him from pirates.” The smirk on her face only matched by the glinting on her bracelets when she inspected her own fingers under the golden light streaming in through the window.

“Oh, okay.” The royal answered dumbly. “So you’ll still help me find someone for tonight, right?” She said, to which Irene only nodded her head, laughing at the other’s total lack of interest in what she just told her about the near possible doom of the whole kingdom.

“Already have someone in mind.” The indigo-haired girl replied, and turned once more to the various papers over her desk. “I’ll tell you as you’ll come with me to deliver these.” She said as she picked up several notes and numbers and gracefully placed them under her arm. “It is Cotillion day after all.”

The smile Janine gave her was unparalleled. Following her towards the exit as the other walked on.“Thank God.” The brunette said.

“Oh, no. This is _all_ me.” Irene replied. “If I was able to find _Anderson_ a date; you’re easy, honey.” She smiled and watched as Janine’s hopeful expression turned excited. The rebel sighed slightly, “Besides, I was lucky enough to be given a chance, and I have to make the most of it.” Sherlock, and Archie, and all of the kids trapped in the Island very present in the front of her mind.

She took a moment to wistfully think about them, but then shook herself off and linked one arm around the other’s elbow and lead her out of the room. “Now come,”She drawled. “I want to hear _every_ detail about this prince’s family jewels…” _._

 

 

* * *

 

 

After dropping off most of the files and Janine had retired to her own room, Irene texted Greg to meet up and search for their favourite drama queen, who apparently was _‘nowhere to be found’_ according to the other girl. If he had bolted again —after the girl had gone through so much trouble to convince the royal tailor to modify his suit last minute— she was sure she was truly going to kill him this time. 

The both of them walked through the corridors, deserted as the hour for the celebration drew near. Greg had been certain of a very non-helpful fact, —of Sherlock probably being anywhere but his room— to which Irene had protested and deemed ridiculous and insisted they checked there first. Of course now, as they peered into the room, Irene never imagined being wrong would manifest into something so… weird.

Anderson was standing before Sherlock’s mirror; apparently the key he had given to Lestrade had not been his only copy, and he was wearing one of the rebel’s deerstalkers —for a boy who loathed them, Sherlock really seemed to have lots of them at hand— . The cobalt blue suit he was wearing shrouded by the big fake-furred cape he had on; making him look like those pompous, ostentatious kings of medieval times. “What’s that?” He said to his snobbish reflection. “Oh yes, I am the most brilliant man in the kingdom, I just saved it.” The tone he used pretended to emulate that of the violet-haired boy’s. Irene and Greg looked at each other and exchanged glances of shared animosity at the sight. “No Sally, I still haven’t chosen my queen, yet.” Anderson continued, casually regarding the mirror as if said girl were actually gushing over him at the other side. Irene had never witnessed something like it.

“Anderson?” She said, startling the other into almost dropping the hat. Philip turned to look at them with a mix of terror and unashamed cockiness. 

Greg sighed. “Told you.” He said, as he entered the room and glared at the smug face of the other, while Irene paced around the room.

Even with most of his things still in the bag he had taken to The Isle, Sherlock’s room remained chaos and a hurricane united. She searched on his desk for a sign of the silver-eyed’s intentions and found his coat still there, draped over the great chair, while no sign of the Cotillion suit could be seen anywhere. There was an unassuming-looking map to the _‘Magical artefacts disposal’_ laid over the table.

“What the fuck are you doing in Sherlock’s room?” Greg asked, his strong arms pushing his hands deep into his pockets to avoid throttling the royal. No matter how justified, roughing up a prince —even a lowly one like Anderson— would end up in trouble for all of them. And problems with the crown and John, was the last thing any of them —including the king himself— needed. Although the prospect kept looking more and more appealing as the seconds went by. “And where is Sherlock?” Lestrade demanded.

“Never mind that,” The girl said as she pushed the map to the other’s chest and walked past him. “I got your date.” She said to Anderson, waving the paper with the princess’ number over it. Stiffly smiling at him to just take the damn information already and stop pestering their existences. She figured Philip Anderson really brought out the _Sherlock_ in people.

Just as he was about to speak, Philip’s phone went off, the shrill sound of regal trumpets he had for a ringtone echoing across the messy room as he checked the caller ID. “What the-” He muttered, before his confused eyes morphed into a sight of deep excitement. He hasted to answer, almost tripping in his enthusiasm; completely ignoring the other two figures in the room in order to talk earnestly into the mobile’s microphone. “Sally!?” He asked, his emotions see-through as Irene rolled her eyes and Greg threw his hands in the air in frustration. The boy’s face oozing annoyance at the other. “Well yeah, that’s wonderful news.” Anderson continued, not caring one bit about the inconvenience. His big nose scrunching up as he smiled genuinely. He parted the phone from his ear for a moment, “She lost her corsage for Cotillion and wants me to go get another one.” He told them, as if the rebels would give a damn about what Sally or him wanted. “Fairy meadow blossoms.” He explained, while Lestrade’s fists tightened inside the gloves. 

“I’ve got another girl for you right here!” The indigo-haired exclaimed, waving the paper once more and releasing an outraged gasp when the other held out his finger for her to shut up. She placed her slender hands over her hips and glared.

“And that’s almost two hours away.” Greg offered, an incredulous expression painted all over his face. The girl had a feeling this is how Sherlock looked at the world around him, and finally understood why he kept calling everyone _‘dull idiots’_. It was no wonder he had ran, at least at The Isle you had to have some brains to survive.

“Really? Only two?” Philip said, filled to the brim with excitement at the completely wrong concept. Somehow the meaning of the information not quite sinking in as he grinned greatly enough one would think the line of the king had broken and he was actually next to the throne. “I’ll be there faster than I thought.” He said, just before hanging and walking towards the exit. 

Greg sighed, giving up his attempts to reason with the jerk over how plainly he was being screwed; both of them could recognise their willingness —and satisfaction— to let him keep on believing as such. “Leave the hat.” The rebel ordered, snatching the deerstalker out from the other’s head. Anderson, completely unfazed by the motion, continued beaming at his phone as if it would grant him his deepest wishes. He regarded the others for a moment and laughed casually, punching Greg on the arm and letting himself out.

“But your date!” Irene yelled after him as he walked carelessly out of the door and into the hallway. Strutting down the corridor and paying no attention to his surroundings in favour of staring at the fateful mobile phone.

“Who cares about her?” He yelled back, the conversation seemingly over as he screamed _‘I’m coming, Sally!’_ while racing across the blue carpet and out of sight.

After a few moments of silence, the boy huffed and said, “I _hate_ that guy.” Venom dripping from the words, while he raised his eyebrows, unbelieving in what he just witnessed. Irene sympathised entirely with both sentiments.

“He stills owes me half payment.” She commented, her hand scrunching up the number of the poor girl who would remained dateless tonight; although perhaps that awkward fate would be immensely better than being stuck with Anderson for a whole evening. It appears Sally had inadvertently done this girl, and probably all the girls in Auradon, a favour at keeping Philip away from the night’s festivities. 

With the riddle of Sherlock’s whereabouts solved, there was nothing left for them to do than to go and prepare themselves. “You still gonna charge him?” Lestrade asked the indigo haired girl as they walked out into the corridor of the men’s dorm room. His expression once again relaxed as he strolled easily across the wooden paneling of the floor. 

“Oh, _excessively_.” Irene smirked. 

 

 

* * *

 

 

John always believed the balcony in his room, the one which looked into the royal gardens from three stories up and gave you a clear view of the whole of Auradon’s capital town, as well as The Isle across the ocean, was where he did the best thinking. The twinkling lights and distant busy streets making for the perfect backdrop for pondering life’s most difficult conundrums. 

However, now he stood there under the purple light of the setting sun hiding behind the horizon; and he could not, for the life of him, find out how to wrap his head around what was happening. His brain sluggishly trying to muddle through the fog with no seeming hope of ever getting through the miasma of thoughts swirling inside his troubled mind. 

He could hear knocks over his door from time to time, attempting to bring him out of his rapture. A tentative staccato of three taps at a time which he recognised as one of his helpers who probably came to remind him the time for Cotillion was drawing near. Yet he remained there, clad in a party suit, caught in the chasm of the turning colours of the sky.

Cotillion and other royal duties the farthest thing from his mind as he stared at the immensity of the kingdom. _His_ kingdom; that for some reason had trusted he would be good doing a job that nobody would ever come to do naturally, no matter how skilled a leader or strategist you were. He doubted even his father —who had spent cycles as a cursed beast— had found such a challenge with the responsibility as he had; and apparently, Sherlock felt the exact same way. The uncertainty eating away at both of their souls until what there is between them got muffled, out of focus. The king had felt things were slipping through his fingers and spiralling out of his control as he stood helpless on the sidelines. Completely ignoring what was right in front of him.

The last two days felt like complete sun-cycles to him. Ageing him as if he had spent an eternity asleep by some spell and only now was he able to be woken from his oblivious slumber. The odd dreams, having receded for various moon cycles, were back. Stronger, or perhaps just more vivid than before; yet he still hesitated to tell Sherlock.He wouldn’t even know how to explain them even if he were inclined to do so. The violet-haired boy was beyond overwhelmed already and he feared that all he needed to loose the last thread tying him to sanity was an excuse; a reason to crash with the weight of the pressure. Bizarre night visions about The Isle —prior to having actually been there— were bound to bring upon them only disaster. However, he couldn’t just _not_ tell him, Sherlock needed to know about this, specially since he was probably the only one in the kingdom that had both, the knowledge and the skill, to do something about it. He hoped after tonight’s surprise that could still be a possibility.

It was mesmerising how his whole perspective had changed in just a few hours. One conversation. That was all it had taken for his previous universe to crumble away, only to raise once again as something completely different. Previously, he had been so filled with doubt he felt he could have choked with it, but now all the mistful apprehension had been cleared. And in their stead, remained only what he had to do. What he _needed_ to do. It was safe to say this newfound clarity was in a way scary; the strange anticipation just adding to the immense feeling of duty he owed not to his parents, not to the kingdom, not even to Sherlock; but to himself. 

Eurus, —everything else aside— had opened his eyes to the harsh truth about his reality. Had set in motion a train of thought from which he had shied away for so long. He listened, and with an incessant voice in his brain he unraveled the rest by himself. The rebel and him were struggling, perhaps too much, to fit the roles in which they had been casted. The same thing Eurus had said about Sherlock and his _‘evolution’,_ and how confused she was at watching the genius choose to go backwards; away from the near ‘selfish’ perfection he had already achieved back in The Isle.; meaning _‘selfishness’_. According to her, Auradon was sucking the very soul out from him and John was loathe to admit he had contributed to that, but he vowed he would not continue to allow the situation to remain as it was; not tonight. Because he understood now. Perfectly clear as if it had been painted in big bold type over all the tall walls of the castle.

He had been an idiot. The foolish, optimistic moron that Sherlock always accused most people of being, and had neglected to see the facts. But now that he knew, the tendrils of it were grabbing at him, coiling their slippery arms around him and dragging him under, impossible to ignore any longer.

Just as he decided on a course of action, unable to lie to himself anymore, he sighed. The sound followed by a single knock on his door. 

 

 

* * *

 

 

The kingdom was bathed in a million lights as the moon hung low still over the hill that was Auradon. Making for a beautiful backdrop for the regal cruise next to the coast of white beaches. The invited —along with dozens of _uninvited_ — citizens gathered at the dock to presence the voyage’s start. Several of royals crossed the great bridge to the deck of the HMS Baskerville, its rails adorned with dozens of water flowers along with light pink and aquamarine ribbons. The incredible golden detail on the ship’s forward impacting more than one witness, as the boat was boarded in time for Cotillion. 

Irene, clad in a deep blue lace gown clinging closely to her form, posed for pictures at the entrance as Molly and Greg were crossing the bridge. They spotted her, surrounded by cameramen and reporters. Her red lips grinning widely at the attention as she stood. 

“Irene! You look beautiful tonight!” One of the reporters yelled, as the others cheered in agreement.

The girl smirked and turned, “I know, dear.” She said, twirling the loose strand of blue hair that intentionally fell out from her stylish updo. Her hands were covered with matching crimson gloves and her neck was adorned with a ruby and sapphire pendant hanging from a necklace.

“Tell us what inspired the shattered heart!” Another reporter questioned. Lestrade turned to Molly with an amused smile, the both of them giggling at how delighted Irene looked at being the main object of admiration. 

“Shouldn’t you know?” She replied, in regards to her choice of jewellery, chosen carefully for its tie to her mother. “It’s from The Isle.” The answer seemed to bring forth a waterfall of other questions, for which Greg and Molly didn’t have the patience to stay and witness.

They walked over and left her behind to step over the overpass. At the end of a walk of opulent marine beauty stood an archway, big enough to fit a dozen people across and writhed in the softest and most twinkling of fabrics, leading the way for the real wonder. The view opened into a big deck. Three levels across its expansive area and panelled with white linoleum so polished you would think it water by the clear reflexions casted on its surface. A series of cords hanged from each tall post on the railings, making possible a thousand fairy lights creating a faux starry sky overhead. There were various of stain-glass mosaics depicting royal couples from the different realms conforming the United Kingdom of Auradon placed on rows of frames all around the edge of the ship.

“So,” Greg started, his gaze shifting around the whole magical scene. “Here we are.”His beaming face coming to wait for Molly to regard him too. When she did, she shyly smiled and nodded. “You really outdid yourself, Molls.” The compliment was well deserved, not a detail had been unthought. She had planned the event with Sherlock-like precision.

Towards the bow of the ship you could see dozens of tables with golden and blue tablecloths, arranged in a complicated pattern over the floor; at the centre of which rested glass sphere bowls filled with water and candles. Across the ball-floor, at the other end of the ship, carpeted stairs flanked by a double line of golden columns lead to the entrance of the bridge with its walls covered in various flags.

The both of them approached the side centre of the deck, where several people were already conversing with a soft, upbeat music as soundtrack. Greg looked at his date with a smirk, attempting not to stare at the dusty blue gown she wore. 

“Oh, there you are, dear.” An excited voice came from behind them. “Everything looks so beautiful, love.” Lady Hudson said, as she placed an affectionate hand over the girl’s shoulder. She fussed over her granddaughter’s hair and smiled at Greg in greeting. “We just need to ladle out the punch before the sherbet melts,” She said. Her eyes twinkling under the lights. Molly opened her mouth to decline, but no sound came out from her lips before the woman kept talking. “And keep those forest rascals out before they do away with all the biscuits again,” The tone had turned annoyed, almost furious at the nerve of the men to disrespect the royal family in such a way. The girl’s big brown eyes stared at the rebel in panic, apologetically shrugging her shoulders as she nodded along with Hudson’s rant; clearly not knowing what to do. Greg laughed nervously, raising his eyebrows and placing his hands inside his trouser’s pockets. “A bit rude, isn’t it?” She said. “To steal food when-”

“I have a date!” Molly blurted out. Her expression turning alarmed as soon as the words fell from her mouth. Lestrade fought the urge not to laugh, discreetly placing a hand over his own lips.

“You do?” Lady Hudson asked, beaming as she clapped both her hands together in delight. “Oh, how lovely!” She said, and Molly’s cheeks grew rosy at her enthusiasm. The girl turned her eyes to him and pressed her lips into a thin line. “What’s his name?” Hudson asked, perusing the strangers in the crowd for a clue of the mysterious boy. “And you?” She addressed him. “Do you have a date too, dear?”

“Yeah.” He answered, his eyebrows scrunching together with amused perplexity. He exchanged a shrug with said date making her finally lose her resolve and giggle.

“Wonderful.” Lady Hudson beamed and placed an oblivious hand over her arm, covered with a sparkly soft jumper in white which matched the big ribbon bow covering most of her head and hiding her pink roots.

“Gram?” Molly caught her attention, and in a fit of bravery reached out one of her pale hands to grasp that of Greg’s. The rebel boy smirked at her, incredibly satisfied.

“Oh.” The woman’s expression changed; but not into one that the boy had expected. Her knowing gaze transformed her entire face; yet no alarm or disgust was present, instead, if it were anyone else, Greg would have identified it as _‘dropping the act’_. “I know that, dear.” She said, to the bewilderment of both of them. “I’ve always known.” The stretching smile now completely genuine as she placed a hand over her own cheek and all but cheered. Her stern but kind eyes turned to him in warning. “You take care of her, young man. Or you’ll have me to answer to.”

Lestrade laughed casually, in no way taking lightly what was being said. She may look all nice and soft now, but she was still arguably the most powerful and skilled sorcerer in the realm, he would do well not to antagonise her. “Of course, your grace.” He said, his winning smile mollifying them both as his date wrapped her hands around his strong arm covered with a yellow and crimson blazer. 

“Go, go. I’ll do it.” The lady motioned them to leave. “But just this once, dear; I’m not a waiter.” The three of them laughed, and the girl tucked a stray lock of her brunette hair behind her ear.

“After you.” Greg said, placing one hand behind his back and the other reaching forwards for Molly to take. Which she did, excitedly, and half dragged him away to the crowd and into the height of the ongoing festivities _._

 

 

* * *

 

 

The loud sounds of the merry gathering outside the doors echoed all through the walls of the small room at the bridge in which Sherlock was sequestered. He had been told to wait until his entrance was announced, and he was not about to argue with avoiding all those people for as long as he could. He attempted to halt the shaking of his hands, to no avail, as he paced in his yellow suit. Irene hadn’t been able to do anything about the horrid colour —although the rebel suspected that was way too convenient— but the tailor had managed to add a sharp high collar to the jacket, emulating his own coat, and replace some of the bright shade with royal blue patterns. It wasn’t perfect, but a great improvement was added with the jagged edges of his tails. He certainly didn’t feel completely comfortable in it, but it would have to do. Sherlock fought hard not to let the metaphor bother him.

Trumpets boomed from the distance, startling him out of his reflexion. They signaledthe hour of his appearance was drawing near. His brother, who had been watching him fret with varying levels of alternating annoyance and amusement for more than half an hour, sighed and raised from his lavish seat. Coming to stand in front of the violet-haired boy. “For God’s sake, Sherlock, pull yourself together!” He said, a scowl mirroring the silver gaze before him. “Listen, I know you’re nervous but-” Mycroft started, only to be cut off by Sherlock’s rapid refutal.

“Nervous?” The boy said, staring at him as if he had accused him of the worst thinkable crime. “Don’t be ridiculous, I’m not nervous.” He scoffed, hurrying around the small room for lap number thirteen hundred. Thankful he had had the sense to destroy the wand before coming or his state would probably had been ten times worse. “Why would I be nervous?” He continued, the velocity of his speech only able to be discerned by a fast brain like his brother’s. “It’s not like it matters to me how it-” But the rebel stopped abruptly, halting even his movement dead as he turned around and fierily regarded the other. Mycroft watched him intently, an auburn eyebrow arched in contemplation and recognition. “What?” The violet-haired snarled.

“Oh, nothing.” His brother responded, a casual expression over his features while he adjusted his moonshine grey suit. “I just-”

“I know that silence.” Sherlock shook his head and tilted his head sideways. “What?” He said, his mercurial eyes squinting as he scanned Mycroft’s stance.

The both of them sized the other up, and the rebel was not sure he liked the look that the royal advisor was giving him. He had been at the end of it in several occasions the past few days, never having appreciated it in the first place. That look as if they were privy to something that you ignored, or perhaps ignored how ineffective your concealment of it was to others. “Well, I better get back to it.” Mycroft adjusted his golden tie and stood up straighter, smiling knowingly at his brother as he turned to the door. Sherlock failed to know whether he wanted him to stay to get some answers or to stall what was about to happen even for a moment longer. “I have a royal announcement to make.” The ginger declared and flung open the door, stepping through with a bureaucratic attitude. 

“Mycroft!” The rebel demanded, going as far as following to the door to try and gain back his attention. When he saw the other’s figure grow smaller through the corridor and make a turn where he would be presented with the whole of the royal party, he sighed. “Pompous dick.” He grimaced. Letting himself drop ungracefully on the opulent lounge sofa, with his arms gangling over the arm rest. Not a care given to wrinkly suit.

He knew he must hurry, but he was also aware that Mycroft would not —could not, in fact— start this without him standing readily on his designated spot. So he took a few more moments to gather his wits about him and pop open two buttons on his blue shirt; thankful for a moment that he had been allowed to ditch the tie at least. 

When he finally made his way out, the royal advisor was already at the top of the stairs, addressing the attendees. “I present to you:” He said, his tone as regal as the loud trumpets had been before him. “The future Lord Sherlock!” Came his cue, and all Sherlock could see was his big brother’s profile, looking into the crowd he was sure was gathered with rapt attention, waiting for him to emerge from the shadows. 

He made sure his collar was up and took some steps to stand right where the ginger had vacated, looking out to the festivities. Perhaps he should worry about ambiance and decorations —he was sure Molly would have found a way to sneak in a few of her very cheesy ideas— but the thought never even crossed his mind as he stared at some of the people with expectant faces. He could see Irene’s proud face, and Greg smiling at the left with Molly practically hanging off his arm in excitement. He hesitated in the next step, until his brother leaned in and whispered, “Time to _mingle,_ little brother.” He said, and Sherlock turned an icy gaze towards his direction. The familiarity of the banter leaving him feeling oddly reassured, and when he saw the other’s expression, he deduced perhaps that was the intention.

He descended the stairs, scowl not able to erase into a genuine smile. “Hello.” John’s father, who stood at the bottom of such along with his grinning wife, extended a hand for him to shake in greeting. Sherlock did as requested and replied, his voice wavering with repressed emotion.

“John is on his way.” The former queen assured. Gathering her hands under her chin in contemplation as her soft yellow dress shined under the decorative lights. “You look so handsome!” She squealed, the former king Ben laughed heartedly at the comment.

“Uhm,” The violet-haired boy muttered, his blinking eyes staring at the couple that had brought into the world the gift that the idiot John Watson was.

“Listen, I know we were shocked at first, but you-” His mother sighed, a pleased expression breaking out over her features as she regarded him with something akin to gratitude. “You’re _exactly_ what our John needs.” She declared, even if Sherlock was not exactly sure about the validation of said statement. Reciprocity had never been a rule of the universe.

“And lucky for me she doesn’t go by first impressions.” Ben joked, managing to draw a badly-concealed mocking snort out of the rebel for how awful that was. The couple laughed, a little bemused at his reaction but mostly taking it in stride. The complete proof that John had not spontaneously sprung out from the ground. 

Irene approached them then, bowing down at the royals and extending a hand in permission to whisk Sherlock away to his place at the front of the crowd to await the king’s entrance. “Of course.” John’s father said and gestured for the rebel to take his leave.

“So,” The indigo haired said, teeth biting on her bottom lip. “How are we feeling?” She said as she guided him towards the centre of the deck. The blue sash coming from her one shoulder dress floating behind them as they walked.

The silver-gazed boy eyed those present carefully, a million deductions presenting in small white letters around each of them. Some of them hilarious, other mildly embarrassing, but he paid them no mind as he turned his head towards his friend’s question. “You’ve gain weight since we left the Isle.” He said.

The girl scoffed. “That was nasty.” She chided, just a hint of amusement behind the words. “And you must be about to throw up if you’ve resorted to _lying_.” She said, as they reached their places. Greg smiled at him from across the floor, not-so-silently mocking how miserable he looked in that shade of canary yellow. “We’re right here with you, alright?” Irene assured, as the trumpets started playing once more. Now with him at the other side. He nodded.

The lights dimmed, in order for a single reflector to shine its light unto Mycroft’s face. “John Watson,” He said, extending a hand to greet him. “King of the United Kingdom of Auradon!” The ginger announced as John stepped into view.

The crowd cheered behind him, loud as he had never heard them before; however, he could barely gather the awareness to clap. The king wore a royal blue suit, with golden decorations pinned to his jacket and matching perfectly with the heavy crown resting upon his head. His expressive face smiling at his people. It was obvious they adored him, and Sherlock was mesmerised, struck immobile at how a mortal could ever manage to provoke _this_ in someone, let alone a whole kingdom. 

“Oh,” Irene gasped next to him, snatching him out from his frozen state. Finally making him deliver the first real honest smile he had since leaving Auradon the day before. “Go get him, before I do.” The girl whispered, a slow and appreciating drawl echoing as she gently pushed him on the back. 

Sherlock sensed she was not entirely joking with that, and he frowned at her as he spoke the word _‘Gay.’_ to the girl. Smiling haughtily at having found the exact argument to halt her as he advanced.

“I’ll make an exception.” She assured, and the rebel rolled his eyes and turned around. He strolled with gaining confidence towards the back of the ship.

The king was already at the bottom of the stairs, awaiting for Sherlock to join him. However, once the violet-haired boy approached he could see the other’s expression was not as genuine as he had believed at first. No one else around him seemed to notice, but it was there. The smile he wore was tight at the edges and his eyes appeared more troubled than he had ever seen them, yet he continued as if nothing was amiss. But something _was_ wrong. The violet-haired boy could see it. It was hard to pinpoint exactly _what_ to the rebel, —John always managing to skilfully escape every attempt he made at figuring him out completely— but he could see something brimming beneath the surface. Something unrecognisable.

Sherlock’s breath resonated inside his ears as the royal took a step into his proximity. “Sherlock,” He said, the name sounding so foreign on his tongue that almost made the other reel back. The tone did not appear angry or hurt. It was the total lack of meaning behind it that drew the other into a terrified pause. Sherlock frowned as he heard the loud pounding on his heart threatening to rip out of his chest. “I wish I had time to explain.” John said, apologetic yet with a hint of underlaying excitement, and the rebel drew a deep breath in worry.

The blonde turned sharply towards the bridge, his hopeful eyes now searching until they landed on a figure at the top of the stairs and he _smiled_. Sherlock was not even able to hear the shocked gasps behind him; the moment he saw Eurus there, clad in a bright teal gown, was worse than being plunged into the deepest ocean.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise I can explain myself.
> 
> Come back next week to know what happens.


	11. Chapter 10: Show Me How To Drown

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm very glad you stuck around.

[ ](https://ibb.co/4JtMMvF)

 

 

 

 

> Drowning. To die or deliberately kill   
>  by complete submersion in, and  
>  inhalation of, water. As the victim is  
>  covered with liquid and unable to  
>  breathe for several seconds.
> 
>  

 

His system was failing. Had _already_ failed. Lines of code and execution broken beyond recognition, as he watched the scene unfolding in front of him. 

Eurus stood at the top of the stairs, her posture completely different from usual, trying to pass off as _‘natural’_ but only managing to come off even more stunted as she watched the crowd with a tentative smile. Million of deductions springing from her teal gown and bound hair; but Sherlock couldn’t catch any of them. They all flew by him as he remained completely immobile. Up to the point where the very small part of his mind that still worked knew he would have to breathe soon if he wanted to avoid a lost of consciousness episode.

The only thing the rebel’s eyes seemed to capture was John’s face as he looked up to the girl from the bottom of the carpeted stairs, feeling he’d gone dumb. The mesmerised expression he wore when he caught her gaze ruthlessly breaking something inside Sherlock, —exactly _what_ that was he couldn’t figure out, not like that— all he knew was a sharp pain present as if his very lungs had stopped functioning. 

Confused faces turned to find one another in the crowd around him; intricately laced with bemusement as he could see the people of Auradon stare up to their king almost as dazed as he was. He felt a slender hand grab his wrist, its cold temperature a relief against a skin that felt scorching to him. The violet haired barely registered the gesture or its owner.

John hurried up the steps, meeting the now grinning girl at the middle of them. The both of them smiled at each other and the blonde offered his hand for her to grab as they descended down the stairway together. The king’s beaming expression never faltered even when he encountered frowning confusion on his parent’s faces and a dangerously betrayed grimace exuding from his closest friend. John payed them no mind.

Once they both reached the deck, joined by their hands, Sherlock’s hands were shaking as he stupidly stood there. John bent in reverence as he kissed the king’s ring on her finger, the one the violet-haired boy had returned just the day prior. The locked posture on the rebel beginning to cause discomfort in his joints, but there was nothing he could do to change it. His mind had left his body and he was set adrift at an unknown ocean; emptier even than Moriarty himself as he stared horrified to the affectionate gesture.

“I’m so sorry, Sherlock.” John said, once he stood before him. Somehow the apologetic expression not reaching his delighted eyes as if the excitement he felt were impossible to keep inside, trumping all other justified emotion. “It all happened so fast.” He explained, as the rebel stared only to their united hands. Choosing to ignore Eurus’ smile completely. “Something happened when we were on The Isle; when I was with E,” The blonde’s tone was wistful and cutting deeper into Sherlock’s stomach with each word. “It was like a spark,” He said, turning the stare at the girl’s teal eyes and barely sparing him another glance. “A connection.”

“Which means what, exactly?” The boy demanded. His closed eyes shielding him briefly from a reality he so desperately wanted to avoid. Attempting to empty out the world around him in order to make sense of the chaos.

“It was like-” John said, pausing to think of a suitable description. Falling silent when his gaze returned to Sherlock’s. The rebel had the feeling the blonde thought he wouldn’t understand even if he were to explain.

“Emotional context.” Eurus jumped in, grinning in encouragement as her ocean eyes pierced through his form. “It was like love, Sherlock.” She explained, making the other take a slight step back, distancing himself from the horror. “Can you believe it?” The crowd around them was deadly quiet as she conveyed her improbable enthusiasm. “I finally feel _‘love’_.” The word was spoken as a description, in no way underlining the original raw ache that came with it. The silver gaze left her face and turned to regard the blonde, bewildered at how devoted he seemed at the display. “Do you know what that’s like?” She asked, and Sherlock pressed his lips into a thin line in order to attempt to keep the words inside, the answer now more dangerous than he had believed at first.“Like someone _really_ understands, and we’re just _so_ alike.”

The statement made a spark ignite inside of him, “He’s _nothing_ like you.” He snarled, wondering if perhaps he should feel confused at his remaining readiness to defend the character of the royal who was doing this to him. A small sliver of him furious at himself for being exactly what he had always despised.

“Sherlock, she’s right.” The blonde interjected, his blue sight set on the girl, not letting anything distract him or rob away the most minutiae of her movements. The crown over his blonde head bounced off yellow light to the room; matching the thin gold chain partially concealed in his suit jacket. “And so beautiful.” He said. 

Eurus laughed softly, bashfully looking away as the king’s gaze insisted on her expression. The smell of sea air and the cold breeze on his face paralleling perfectly the freezing shiver the rebel felt at his core. Like an incorrect sum of numbers that just wouldn’t —or couldn’t— be added up. 

“Such nice eyes.” The girl said, reaching towards the blonde’s face, and placed a slender hand, covered with a white silk glove, over his golden cheek. A hidden intent behind the phrase the genius couldn’t quite parse. 

The moisture inside Sherlock’s eyes threatened to spill over, but he stubbornly willed it back as he uttered the other’s name. “John.” He said, but was unable to grab for himself the attention the blonde was giving to his sister so freely. “John!” He insisted, the helplessness on his resounding voice above the dead silence completely foreign even to his ears. “How is she here?” He asked, once both of their faces turned to regard him at last. Twin frowns over their brows when they looked at him as if annoyed at his pathetic interruption to their bliss. “Did you go back for her?” He asked. 

For once, John appeared mildly apologetic, his smile turning a bit strained at the corners when he noticed the redness on the rebel’s eyes. Sherlock’s breath quickened but his jaw kept trembling, adrenaline not quite kicking in as the ruthless anxiety ate away at his bones. The blue in his irises seemingly darker as the king hesitated to respond.

“Love,” Eurus said to him, placing a comforting hand over his arm that made John’s shoulders relax at once. “He didn’t have to.” She explained. Now she was close, Sherlock could recognise the passiveness inside her gaze; the one that had always been there. The rest of her expression appeared elated and blissfuly enamoured, but in her eyes brimmed a tranquil sea, as if they hadn’t quite gotten the message. “Perhaps being a lousy swimmer yourself, you forgot I’m an excellent one.” The small laugh at the end was mirrored by the king, making Sherlock ready to scratch the stifling suit off, —which didn’t shelter him from the cold anyway— and make a run for it; but his feet were still nailed in place, as if reluctant to leave the last chance he would ever get —and tolerate— in the other’s presence. “I managed to dive through the barrier before it closed.” Eurus’ tone sounded self deprecating, but it was laced with something that prevented the rebel to believe it. “I couldn’t let this go.” She said, as she turned to grab the blonde’s hands in hers and leaned her forehead to meet with his. 

Sherlock, the unwilling phantom at the feast, stood back. Mindlessly shaking off the insistent hand attempting to tug him back into the crowd; away from hurt and betrayal. But the rebel refused to move, not willing to let this go unsolved. His purpose had been obliterated, and now the only thing left for him was to desperately grasp at the reason why. He tried to control the rate of his breathing, as his silver eyes blinked furiously in an attempt to delete the emotion. He looked helplessly in the blonde’s direction; silently pleading for him to deny this from reality. 

Eurus turned her head to look at him in something that could only be described as pity as she reluctantly released the hold she had on the king’s strong fingers and took a step closer to the violet-haired boy. “Listen, little brother.” She said, and she reached out a hand to grasp Sherlock’s, who gasped affronted and tried to snatch it away;only to be deterred by her strong hold turning tighter, a vicious vine tangling over his whole arm. “I really want to thank you,” She smiled, mirth written in her expression as she made a show of gratitude. Sherlock’s shocked figure finally giving way to hopelessness. “For showing me all this,” Sherlock’s tug of his hand was relentless, while he looked past her venomous lies and to John’s soft grin of pride towards her. “For everything you’ve given me.” The rebel shifted silver eyes at her in animosity, rage bubbling up his stomach as a lime green colour swirled over his baffled gaze. “Thank you,” Eurus said, as she leaned forward and wrapped both her arms around Sherlock. Squeezing him tighter in grace as he remained paralysed for a few seconds; wondering how the world had transformed so radically. “So much.” She whispered, not concerned with the complete contrast the happiness on her tone was to the rebel’s own devastated expression as the world crumbled around him.

“Get away from me.” He snarled, forcefully extricating himself from her embrace at once, as he felt cold moisture run down his cheeks. The girl even having the nerve to look shocked at his reaction.

“But Sherl-” She said, a slight frown appeared over her brow as she turned expectantly to John for help in dealing with the situation. With _him_. As if he was a small thing deserving only of sympathy. 

“Don’t.” The rebel cut her off as he took a step backwards. The big lump inside his throat feeling more like chocking hands with each second. The spectators looked on, probability suggested they would encounter a complete lack of action; yet he couldn’t find it inside himself to care much at the moment. His tunnel vision not allowing him to jump the track from this disaster. Not when John’s eyes had warmth now only for her; downgrading him into another stranger.

“Don’t you see?” The king said, a big grin breaking his face in a twisted mockery of excitement. “You were right,” He continued, his tone soft even if the words crawling out of his mouth were corrosive to the boy’s ears. “As usual.” John said, Eurus nodding along beside him. Sherlock was not encouraged to believe them. “You somehow saw it was never going to work between us.” The blonde continued. “That’s why you never let me get close,” The dead silence on deck could barely mask the whispered sentence. “Why you never said _it_.”

A threat to the safety of the kingdom felt nothing like this. Physical or political harm could never compare to the utter void Sherlock experienced in his stomach when he saw John so readily dismiss everything. “I-” He started, but the words died on his throat as the royal smiled in determination. Taking a step back from the conversation as he gracefully grabbed the teal-haired girl’s hand and guided her across the floor. 

As the couple began to merrily waltz, —the music cued by the king himself to a confused string quartet— Sherlock felt nauseous, while he stiffly stood at the centre of the deck. Irene stepped forward, placing a gentle hand on his shoulders and finally tugged him back into the multitude, away from where he would remain a spectacle for everyone present. 

Greg came to stand behind him too, his face locked in rage as he saw the both of them sway with the music. “I’m not too thrilled I _risked my life_ for that wanker.” He said. However, the intended barb didn’t seem to have an effect on the blonde.

“We’re with you, Sherlock.” Janine’s voice broke through the miasma of horrible white noise inside his mind, making the violet-haired startle away from the vision at last. He shifted his gaze to look around to the others present. Anything to avoid looking at the sea-foam green of her dress floating as she was twirled. His brother’s face was the most striking among the discombobulated and affronted. Twisted into a deep scowl, and making him look several cycles older than he was.

“Let’s get out of here.” Lestrade said, matching Irene’s expression as the rebel felt his feet move on their own volition. When they all crossed the deck, Sherlock dully flicked his wrist and made a faint green mist gather around his body as his great black coat was summoned; figuring there was no point in hiding now. The familiar warmth and heaviness over his shoulders while he walked acting like a shield from the garish reality.

“Sherlock, honey.” John’s mother said, as they climbed the blue carpet on the steps. Her gentle touch on his arm stalling him from progressing any further. “We’re sorry,”She admitted, a hint of sadness laced through her meaning. “I promise we had no idea.” Her eyes willed him to believe her, and the violet-haired boy turned away from the familiar blue depths of them.

“I’ll talk to him,” The former king promised, as a wave of disappointment passed through his expression when his gaze shifted to the couple. “What he just did-” He said, the situation apparently ineffable for him as well. “This isn’t right.”

Sherlock turned away without a word, passing his brother by completely, hasting up the stairs as he felt his resolve crumble. The surprisingly strong hold Irene had on him practically dragging him forward as he struggled to keep up, he had to reach the bridge as soon as possible.

“Mike!” Molly yelled from behind him. Running up the steps and raising the bottom of her dress to avoid tripping. She shook the royal’s arm as incentive to move before the others disappeared from sight. “The gift!” She said, urgency on her voice and in her eyes.

“Molly,” Mycroft turned, a condescending sneer greeting her impatient energy. “This is hardly the adequate time, my brother-” He said, but was cut off by the girl.

“Needs to see the gift.” She assured, her nails digging deep into the fabric of the other’s suit. “Trust me.” Molly said and turned her head back to gesture the dancing couple. “She’ll love it.” Her deep brown eyes conveying the whole message needed for the ginger to act.

Mycroft nodded, “And now,” He announced, his loud voice carrying through the deck, making all movement cease in an instant. “For the unveiling of King John’s masterpiece,”There was satisfaction in his tone as John and Eurus both turned to look at him, puzzled for the first time of the evening. “Designed specially for his beloved.” The royal advisor gestured the girl. The half sister that had so carelessly just robbed _his_ baby brother. 

Sherlock, —and the party following him— halted too. All of them turning around to stare at where the light reflectors were directed. Right across the deck at the front of the ship, where a big piece of royal blue fabric was finely draped over something flat, and square, and _big_. The rebel reluctantly peered at the object, the small fragment of him that still remained curious, —despite the devastation inside his Mind Palace— fought fiercely against that insistent voice that screamed at him to get away. To summon all the magic he could and curse the entire kingdom out of spite. 

The trumpets sounded once more, the shrill tone drilling into his skull, and then the fabric was pulled off from the object; the gift revealed as once again the silver gazed boy’s breathing stopped altogether. Cold spreading over his chest for an entire dissimilar reason than before; because in front of him, there for anyone to see and delicately painted in the richest of all colours, was a tall stained-glass mosaic, casting a breathtaking kaleidoscope pattern of hues on the floor under it; and matching all the others lined up around the deck’s railing, but this one was different in a very fundamental way.

“Blimey!” Lestrade’s deep voice exclaimed from behind him, coupled with other reacting sounds of a similar manner. Sherlock took a hesitant step down the stairs, his carefully styled curls brushing his sweaty forehead, as his calculating gaze contemplated the image depicted. 

The hundreds of glass pieces that arranged the expressive figure of John were to the right, showing the king in a striking posture. Slightly in profile with his head turned to the front, and the rich gold of his head topped by a crown that suited his formidable character without appearing pretentious. He carried a delighted —perhaps even amused— expression. A cheeky smirk that still managed to make him look incredibly handsome. Deep royal blue and yellow pieces conformed his clean-cut suit and one of his hands was curled in a casual fist. 

But still, as accurate and breathtaking as John’s representation was, Sherlock couldn’t spare his attention on it for long. The king was perfect, no new information there; but the figure beside him paralysed all of the rebel’s muscles as he stared up at a blown up, glass cut version of himself.

“What the hell?” Irene whispered, and the boy was inclined to agree. She slowly walked forward to stand beside him as he frowned in bewilderment. 

Joined to the king by one hand, his portrait stood facing the front; one long leg placed in front of the other as if he were about to jump out of the surface. The thin chest wrapped inside a deep purple shirt and his jagged black coat covering his shoulders with its collar up. His other hand hung gracefully at his side with a cloud of green sparks revolved around it acting as magic.

“That’s-” He mumbled dumbly, staring at his own face on the mosaic. Vibrant violet curls rested over his head as some locks coiled down to hang over his eyes. A slight scowl present in his forehead but mitigated completely by the haughty grin the glass displayed. The two silver pieces managing to convey his piercing gaze to the audience.

“It definitely is.” The girl admitted; no other words left to explain.

“It’s _me_.” The rebel finally said, because there was no denying it, the resemblance was uncanny. Even more accurate than Sherlock’s own vision of himself.

The crowd cheered and clapped; and the rebel knew he should feel skeptical about it; the majority of them weren’t exactly fond of the villain kid to which their king had decided to pair up; but perhaps the devil they knew was, in truth, preferable. 

“Told you.” Greg commented, a modest accomplished tone carrying the phrase. 

The rebel turned slightly to his back. Quickly meeting his brother’s impressed expression and moving on to Molly’s, who seemed about ready to bounce off in relief and excitement. She had known, she had helped him plan this long before Sherlock even thought of going back to The Isle. Which left a very undeniable statement on the table. John’s known all along. Perhaps the rebel had thought it was in everyone’s —specially his own— best interests to believe he could change, that he _had_ changed; but the evidence was clearer than the see-through stained glass.

The various people gathered at the deck exchanged opinions and comments, some of them looked at the portrait and pointed; others took to staring at Sherlock, attempting to gauge his reaction. Eurus scanned the crowds closing in around them, her sharp eyes cutting through everyone present, as she moved her head this way and that, searching for meaning among the strangers. 

The multitude brimmed with movement, yet the king’s limbs remained still; looking up at the image mesmerised. He took a short step towards it as he ignored Eurus’ attempts to stop him, barely aware that she was trying to snatch back his attention. 

Sherlock’s previous devastation taking a back seat as he looked at the back of John’s head. The sliver of suspicion that had been there from the start growing bigger as he compared that posture with the undeniable one at the far end of the ship. He looked at the string quartet on the corner and to the dessert table, decked with a chocolate fountain and strawberries. His gaze narrowed at the conclusion. It was definitely him, but _that_ wasn’t John Watson.

“Cover that back up.” Eurus demanded, stomping towards the royal party in her teal dress which she clearly was nowhere near used to wearing. The hysteria completely out of the norm, the violet-haired wondered when she had learnt that emotion.

“I will not.” Mycroft answered, a pleased smile breaking over his features. The others present remained silent as they witnessed the scene.

Eurus halted, as if now aware of the looks of wonder that were closer to confused stares. “John, come here.” Her voice shifted once again, the faux emotional lilt now apparent. When the king stayed away, reluctant to stop his sight from landing over the mosaic, she stiffly smiled. “Why don’t you tell everyone the present you have for me?” She said, awkwardly opening her arms and grinning around innocently. 

The blonde frowned but nodded nonetheless. “Tonight-” He said, the intention far from reality as his head kept turning back in an attempt to catch one more glance of the glass image. “Eurus will join the Court as my lady.” He extended his arm and the teal-haired girl stepped up to accept it. The wording would appear normal to anyone; but now that Sherlock was able to see it, the prominent cracks were starting to show.

“Son-” John’s father interfered. His booming voice not able to trump over John’s outburst.

“Shut up, dad!” The sentence was out, and angry, and clearly not intended, as he wilted right after finishing; but it was enough to draw a gasp out of the crowd. Eurus grinned when her gaze met silver eyes. Sherlock had seen John like this before; one of his most vivid moments in Auradon was on a sports field under the summer sun all those moon cycles ago. Perhaps the boy had never been more honest with John than when he was lying to him to steal the wand; but the royal was another matter altogether. The racing brain quickly unraveled it from there and found the reason to be exactly the same as to why his coat felt lighter than it should.

The king blinked, his chest raising and falling as he twisted around. “And as my gift-”He stuttered. “To- uh- her,” The lines were breaking. Sherlock turned to watch Irene and Greg, their shocked expressions staring back at him as the former king and queen took several steps backwards. Eurus encouragingly nodded her head and clutched the blonde’s hand in a tight grip. “I’m bringing down the barrier once and for all.” John concluded, sending the royal party into panic. His father looked furious and the warriors of light exchanged affronted stares. “Lady Hudson,” The blonde said, turning to address his godmother, opening and closing one of his fist in what seemed more like nervousness than brutality. “Break down the dome.” He ordered.

“I most certainly will not, young man,” Hudson replied, crossing her arms over her chest, the disappointment on her stance impossible to miss. The silver-eyed boy felt Irene shake his arm, frantically pleading for him to do something; to which Sherlock just smiled. The cards were all on the table now, and whatever game she had lined up, he’ll know it. Because that’s what he did, and he loved it.

“You’d do well to do as you’re told.” The girl remarked, looking far too satisfied and curious for anyone else not to figure out her scheme right away. Her usual vacuum eyes returning to her as the facade started crumbling. “The penalty for treason-” 

However she was cut off by the blonde exclaiming _‘I am your king!’_ to Lady Hudson, echoed by the startled noises of the crowd. Eurus quickly stepped forward and grabbed his hands. Making sure John was looking only to her and nothing else. 

“Wrong.” Sherlock said, loud enough for the sound to carry out across the deck. 

Both of their faces turned to regard him as the previous commotion died a sudden death at the word. “Excuse me?” Eurus asked, her piercing teal gaze raking over his features to discern his meaning. But Sherlock just smirked and descended the stairs in a new found confidence at his conclusion.

“He’s not the king,” He said, faint clouds of purple smoke forming beneath his feet now that he stepped over the wood’s deck once more. His nose turned up at her animosity. “I admit it might have taken me a while,” The tone turned ironic, an expecting eyebrow arched at them. “I’m afraid I was a bit compromised,” The bitter chuckle bounced off the crisp air as he stared at the crowd. Irene frowned at him while he rounded around the couple and they turned to keep him in sight. Lestrade somehow managed to hide his own laughter behind his fist. “But I know John when I see him, trust me.” This was solely directed to his half sister, because knowing the king was a privilege that no Holmes would ever deserve but somehow had landed in his lap; and he would be even worse than Anderson if he didn’t cherish it. “I mean, he went to all that trouble to prove it, I might as well return the favour,” The violet haired boy flapped his hands around excitedly, gesturing to the beautiful mosaic as his purple curls glowed brighter under the fairy lights above their heads. “Because now I’m certain.”His lips broke out in a smile, looking at the king almost as breathless as he had been at the start of the evening. “This is _not_ you.”

John frowned at him; his confused face pleading for answers as he sometimes did when they were alone. Eurus flicked her sight between the both of them and tried to tug the blonde away from the force of nature that was threatening to swallow him whole. “Look at me.” Sherlock said, “You’re under a spell.” The rebel stepped forward, refraining from reaching out a hand to him, to make him _understand;_ but feared it would be too soon and the blonde would interpret it as an attack. The sea witch had made the same mistake he had in the past; even used the same spell book, but her error had been systematic and she would come to regret the oversight soon. If Moriarty had taught him anything, it had been never to shy away from pulling threads if that’s what it took to get what you wanted.

“Look at me!” She screamed, yanking his royal blue-clad shoulder around and securing a frantic hand over his shoulder. “You love me, remember?” Her tone left no space for argument. Conveying a false sweetness as she covered his hand with hers and eyed him sternly. As if John were just a dazed kid speaking nonsense.

“No, he doesn’t.” Sherlock assured. “Oh, John,” He continued, slowly taking a small step closer to him. “The bravest, wisest, most loyal man I’ve ever known:” The raw emotion was impossible to tear away from Sherlock’s words, so he let it play out instead. “You can be _so_ foolish,” The king opened his mouth to retort, but no sound came from his lips as his ocean blue eyes opened wide and he questioned the veracity of them. “I left because I thought it the only logical conclusion.” The rebel explained, a soft smile of fondness forming at the gesture. “That it was only a matter of time before you found out yourself.”

Eurus had clearly grown impatient with his progress and her own inability to keep John’s attention any longer. Her sea-foam green dress now agitatedly shifting as she turned to her surroundings in search for leverage. “Bring down the dome now!” She ordered to the sorcerer. If there was something he would never let go, it was the joy he felt at pissing people off; specially individuals like her who didn’t believe he would give up the kingdom, _the world_ , in order to stop her from even looking at John’s direction in animosity.

“I do not take orders from you.” Lady Hudson responded, the words close to a snarl as she looked defiant at her outburst. Not at all impressed by her or her threats. The silver-gazed boy resisted the desperate urge to laugh.

“I’m the worst possible arsehole you’ll ever meet,” He said, stretching out an arm in demonstration. His expression identical to the one behind him made out of glass cut-outs. John shifted around to stare at the mosaic again, his face no longer impassive as real doubt started to creep in. “But somehow you don’t care.” Sherlock continued. “All this time you knew who we really are and what we can be.” His face earnest as he kept advancing towards them, the shield he had casted over himself and John allowing him to ignore completely the girl’s attempts to deter him with magic. It wouldn’t last for long, but just enough to let him do what he needed. “For once I was the one slow on the uptake,” The rebel knew he was a complete car crash; a drama queen prone to bouts of boredom and wickedness, but not realising John _knew_ was the biggest failure on his part.

“Don’t listen to him.” Came Eurus’ last attempt to control him. The lyrical texture of her voice clouding over John’s features slightly. Sherlock realised if he didn’t risk it and act soon, he may not get a chance again.

“You’re _such_ an idiot. Isn’t it _obvious?_ ” The violet haired admitted, ruefully smiling at the other’s expressive face, not another sound heard as he spoke. He reached out a hand and placed it over the other’s cheek. “How can you not know?” Sherlock’s question was real, but worded in rhetorical fashion. None of that mattered anymore. Now there was only one truth the blonde needed to understand. “ _Of course_ I do.” He said passionately, as if it were his greatest tragedy. “John,” He wrapped a hand behind the other’s neck. “I’ve _always_ loved you.” He said and vehemently pulled him into a kiss.

As the king froze at the onslaught, taking a moment to hesitantly respond; Sherlock ripped the golden necklace from his neck and smiled as it fell to the floor.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The moment the thin chain was off his neck, John felt as if he had been woken after centuries of being trapped in an underground mausoleum. The rebel’s lips parting from his just as he had started to realise what was happening. The royal beamed, his mouth stretched in a completely elated smile and Sherlock’s eyes stared down at him in regard as a delicate dark plum eyebrow raised slowly at him. Then his expression morphed quickly into a frown. “Seize her!” He exclaimed to the guards without even turning his head. Eurus running towards the royal party, her vicious hands digging on Lady Hudson’s arms as she jostled her. 

“For a man who seldom uses jewellery, except when mandatory,” The violet-haired muttered distractedly to the silent question when he clearly sensed the other’s eyes studying him. “A hidden necklace is a bit of a giveaway.” He explained, which drew a chuckle from the blonde.

“I’m that predictable?” John asked as they followed the girls’ attempt to throw the guards off her back. 

“No.” The rebel replied as the others approached, Mycroft nodded in approval at Sherlock, and Molly looked in fear at the threat across the wooden flooring. “But I’m a villain.” He concluded, his eyes not leaving his sister for more than a second. John felt Greg punch him on the arm, probably in retaliation for the confusion and Irene grinned knowingly at their right. 

“What?” The rebel snarled, his sight shifting between her and Eurus. His majesty’s security seizing her at once, halting the slender girl’s movements easily. 

“I told you.” The Woman beamed, a smug smirk on her blood red lips. “True love’s kiss,” She said. “Works every time.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes at her incorrect assessment. “Oh, piss off!” He said, thinking of adding something more when a commotion drew his focus away from his friend again. As soon as the sea witch was believed to be secured, the integrity of her body turned slippery and she managed to slither out of their grip. She ran across the deck, the sky suddenly growing dark as black clouds circled above the ship. The crowd, as well as the crew, sent into a chaos when they realised they were on open sea, and the only escape they could have would be to the bridge or the cabins below them.

Sherlock attempted to diffuse the lashing water, but his attention was soon robbed when he saw the girl, her hair now unbound and the teal locks swept by the strong wind she was creating. Several waves raising up to crash unto the deck and drenching everything on top. Lady Hudson moved to his opposite side, the both of them waved their hands as they struggled to control the tides. John wanted to aid, but could do no more than to gather the citizens and keep them away from the edges.

Eurus’ sea gaze was locked solely on the other, her hands limp at her sides as her mind concocted watery destruction. The scrutiny seemed out of place, the rebel probably more accustomed to encountering hatred, —instead of analysis— in these sort of situations. The king blinked to rid the sea water from his eyes as he stared at her blank expression. 

Her eyes changed then, directing the intensity towards him. The sound of wood breaking ripped through the air, and a jagged line of splintered wood appeared beneath their feet at the centre of the floor’s surface. Cleaving the deck in two and threatening to do the same to the ship should any of them try to stop her.

“Eurus!” John stepped forwards, his hands steady as he raised them in innocence. “Stop.” The expression the girl gave him not easing his terror in the least. “Please,”He said, “We’ll do anything you want.” He hated doing this, giving up control like that, but there was no other option in which him and his kingdom would come out of this still breathing.

“Oh, I’m counting on it.” She responded, the tone flat once more; gone was the bashful lover or the queen of wrath; just Eurus Holmes as everyone knew her. “And I have a vivid imagination.” The words sent a chill down the blonde’s spine. “First,” She said. “No magic.”

He nodded, motioning his sorcerers to stop their spells. Lady Hudson obeyed at once, even if with a bit of apprehension on her face; but Sherlock wouldn’t back down, standing defiantly as green and purple sparks of magic flew from his hands. “Sherlock.” John said, holding his gaze for a few moments until the other’s shoulders relaxed in defeat and the light stopped coming.

For a moment nothing seemed forthcoming. No demands and no orders. Just her looking at him as if she knew him; as if she were aware of an old truth hidden from his eyes. The thought first occurred to him when they were at The Isle, that Sherlock was nothing more than a lab rat to her. A study that had turned obsessive as he continued to defy her predictions; it had apparently all unraveled when he decided to stay in Auradon and discarded his chance at _evolving_. Now, however, he felt the deep implications of that for the first time. She would stop at nothing to get answers, and he could barely imagine what the questions were. In light of this, John closed his eyes in helplessness; apparently they had been shipwrecked since before they had set sail.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Sherlock knew he had left her no choice. He was able to recognise the curse she was preparing from the last chapter of his spell book. He knew John would probably not see it that way, —he had made a deal with her after all, and the rebel’s interference was a clear breach of it— but he couldn’t just stand back and let Eurus attack the king. Had it been up to him, Sherlock would have probably done way worse, but everybody knew where the rebel’s motivation for good behaviour usually laid.

Looking around, the violet-haired found most of the attendees backing away, huddled next to the great mosaic at the bow of the ship; unable to cross towards the bridge. The royal party stood behind him, John just a few paces away, drenched to the bone, as he waited for Eurus to deliver her demands. She was ready to strike when the violet-haired boy closed a fist and caused fire-like bursts of magic to knock her down several feet away.

Thrown completely off balance and sprawled on the floor, the girl’s eyes shifted to him, a question over her brow as she raised to standing. The sure steps she took made the water over the deck fly away from her feet, leaving her stepping on dry flooring, —despite her being completely covered with it. Another wave crashed with the ship, but her advance didn’t halt. 

With his wet curls plastered on his forehead, Sherlock raised both his arms, and his lime green eyes looked at her in defiance as he repeated the motion, now sending her almost flying backwards and crashing her against the mosaic on the far end. The rebel grimaced as the unmistakable sound of it falling to pieces filled the air. The glass shattered instantaneously upon impact, causing a million of tiny glass fragments to rain over her like colourful drops of rain.

John turned to him incredulous from across the deck, but Sherlock failed to know whether it was because of the destruction of his gift or at the way he so skilfullyshoved her. The violet-haired boy would be lying if he said he wasn’t also surprised. His Adam’s apple bobbed and he swallowed past the emotion when his sister rose to her feet once more. Her hair heavy with water and her dress hanging damp from her slender form. 

She stared at the both of them and took a step back, ignoring the confused expression from the two boys as she raced across the deck and stood before the far railing. Sherlock had never seen her unhinged like that. Ever since they were younger she had been mostly passive. Calculating and relying on others to carry out most of her villainous acts. But the magic she possessed was something non transferable and watching her actively pursuing her obsession —no matter how stunted her movements— made frost expand inside the silver-gazed boy’s chest.

Eurus climbed the rail and stared down at the tumultuous sea. John spared a worried glance at the boy and they both rushed forwards, barely managing not to slip on the wet floor as they struggled to reach her. The girl paused and placed her body nearly out of the ship. She turned her head, gauging Sherlock’s reaction as he stood dumbly, witnessing her face break out in a smile of curiosity at what she found there. The seashell hanging from the necklace she recovered from the wooden deck glowed golden over her rising and falling chest. Without even a word, she turned around and let herself fall into the water; the sea quickly swallowed her in deep blackness.

There was a gasp coming from the crowd, as several of them came to lean over the railing and watched where she had fallen. Sherlock frowned, his silver eyes darting around the water in search as he felt John place one hand over his in support. 

“Where is she?” Irene asked to his right, her long indigo hair stuck in strands to her face. Her tone was frantic as her head turned to them in search of a solution.

“We don’t know.” John answered; another wave hitting them and causing him to reel backwards. His hand never leaving Sherlock’s and the rebel’s wet curls jerked back and forth as he examined the restless water.

Lestrade appeared behind John.“Shit.” He said, and the violet-haired boy was bound to agree completely. Even if distress at the scene was inevitable, Eurus was best to be kept in sight.

After a few moments her head popped among the waves. Sporting a calm with which none aboard the ship could empathise. “I was rather hoping one of you jumped to look for me.” She said, her eyes were open in faux innocence while around her a bright aquamarine light glowed beneath the surface.

“You’re insane!” Greg exclaimed. Eloquent as usual, despite the fact of being completely accurate. Sherlock’s knuckles turned white with the strong way he was gripping the white railing.

“Does that mean that you _weren’t_ going to look for me?” She replied, the deliver utterly flat as no emotion broke on her eyes. 

“Eurus, stop this!” Mycroft ordered from deck, his voice loud enough to reach her easily over the deafening thunder. “Stop this at once!” His tone was stern and his eyebrows were narrowed in anger.

“You were always a bit clever.” Was the answer the girl gave him. “But Sherlock…” She replied to the oldest sibling, but her gaze never left the boy. “He’s slow, but _he_ was my favourite.” She said, her words transforming into something more wistful, a distant memory as she smiled crookedly. “You already showed me heartbreak,”She said, and Sherlock let go of the railing, slowly taking a step back from the edge as her words sunk in. “Thank you, it was _very_ enlightening.” The waves around them diminished their intensity, and she floated comfortably at the middle of the vast ocean. “I want to see how you react to _real_ horror.” She paused, a broken sigh escaping her lips as if disappointed “You shouldn’t have let me into the water.” With that, she dived into the tide once more, leaving all on deck desperately awaiting for her deliverance.

A second later the sea grew tranquil and the thunder stopped roaring. As if the universe were holding its breath with them as several minutes passed in this ill-feeling peace. Sherlock examined his surroundings, the deep line over the wood under his feet and the immense expanse of water at both sides of the ship, but no change was visible. It made him even more anxious when the sense of doom fermented and grew with no apparent problem in sight. 

“Hey, sis,” The rebel said, his shaking hands once more inside his pockets as Irene stared at him as if he had finally lost his mind. “Don’t mean to criticise,” He continued, “But nothing’s happening.” 

As soon as the words were out, —and Mycroft displayed a slight annoyance at his inability of taking matters seriously— a groaning could be heard coming from below the ship, the ocean complaining as the water grew dark and turned restless once more. Faster than any of them could comprehend, something shot up from the ocean and seised the surface by its sides. Mostly made of smoke, and bigger than any of them had even seen, _they_ were able to envelope the whole of the ship in their grip. Several terrified screams could be heard at the distance, but Sherlock was barely able to listen to them. His silver eyes fixed on the great tentacles slithering up the rails and traveling across the surface.

“You had to ask.” Greg commented behind him. His strong arms already attempting to dislodge one of them from a railing post, but to no avail. The tentacles were impossible to touch.

Still in a daze, Sherlock flung every magic spell he had stored in his Mind Palace at them, but the effort was futile. Only appearing to make them angrier as they lashed most of his sorcery back to him.

“Sherlock, be careful!” Irene exclaimed as a particularly big limb flung itself in his direction and came very shy of striking him.

“Yes, thanks for the tip.” The rebel replied, his frustrated sneer being obscured by the heavy rain coming down unto him. 

He looked around, the citizens locked in terror as a frightening crunch resonated through the deck. That _thing_ squishing the only shield they had against open sea. The devastation he could see inside his mind very close to becoming true as he watched with laboured breath at the chaos. He was helpless, every scenario he or any of them could concoct didn’t pass the simulation he ran at incredible speed in his brain. This was an experiment; a test to figure out his capabilities; and he had just failed. There was an odd tingling sensation on his fingers. Making the rebel frown as he contemplated the feeling. The shivers soon spread to all of his body and he doubled over as a deep pain settled over his bones.

 

 

* * *

 

 

“John, here!” Molly exclaimed to him as the blonde ran. The vessel was starting to tilt, the threat of being dragged into the lockers of the ocean a very near one as he dashed through and tried to find a solution. The picture of several of his subjects running terrified, scared for their lives, would never be able to leave him even if they did manage to come out of this on the other side.

“How are we doing?” He asked when he encountered Lady Hudson desperately casting diverse curses with sure hands. Her frowning face mirrored by the way her body was locked at the face of her lack of success. 

“Dear, I’m afraid my magic is doing nothing,” She answered, “It goes straight through.” He had gathered as much, at the far distance Sherlock was sharing the same level of progress, and if both of them couldn’t fight against this magical cephalopod being, then he was unsure anything would. 

“Okay,” He said, “Perhaps we can light them on fire.” He suggested, the ones with him exchanging glances among them which let the blonde know how hopeful they were at the idea. Molly’s big brown eyes devoid of any faith as the tentacles climbed higher and were starting to break through the wood’s surface.

“There’s fuel on the engines,” Lestrade shook his head and crossed his strong arms in frustration. “That would blow up the ship.” He explained, and John immediately searched for another alternative, one that didn’t include any of them turning into confetti. Irene sighed and jumped back as a puff of smoke stretched and tried to grab her leg.

“Perhaps a rope?” The king said, “Or the cannons?” The sleeves of his white shirt were rolled up and his jacket was probably now at the bottom of the ocean where he had discarded it earlier. He searched in the other’s expression for any sign of inspiration as the ship tumbled a bit more.

“John this is a festive royal cruise, not a battle ship.” Mike answered, the stern tone not managing to mask his internal panic. “There _are_ no canons.” He said, which the blonde had already suspected.

“Then what in _hell_ can we do?” John exclaimed, hysteria consuming him as he realised that if they didn’t do something _now_ the ship was sure to capsize in the very near future. The ideas stopped, all of them slowly coming to the unfortunate conclusion that they were all going to die tonight.

“Guys,” Molly interrupted. Her thin voice a stark contrast to the loud voices prior, her attention drawn away from their imminent demise. “What’s wrong with Sherlock?” She whispered, looking around at the edge of the ship’s side where the violet-haired stood trembling, his eyes lost and his form nearly ready to plummet to the floor. John watched, almost in slow motion, as Sherlock’s figure became limp and his body went over the railing and dropped into the hungry ocean.

The king didn’t hesitate. Didn’t even think about it as he jumped to the water after his boyfriend. “He can’t swim!” He explained to no one in particular just before he plunged into the sea. 

His body sank quickly, water rushing into his clothes and crushing his ribcage. He spotted Sherlock a few meters away, his coat fanning out around him in a mesmerising show of suspension. John swam towards him, praying to God he would be able to reach him in time as Eurus’ clear laughter could be heard resonating unnaturally across the waves as if it weren’t hindered by them. 

Once his hands could grab him, John wrapped an arm under the other’s legs and neck, and hauled Sherlock’s body upwards. The rebel was still able to draw breath and the king tried to wake him up; but something was wrong. He wasn’t responding to any attempt he made to rouse him and his head hung limply from the hold. “Sherlock, please.” He whispered when the boy began to tremble, having an attack of some sort. John gasped as a purple cloud of smoke gathered around them slowly until the shadows covered them completely.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope this makes up for the horror in which I left you last chapter.
> 
> I can't believe we're so close to the end already. Come back next Tuesday/Wednesday to read the final chapter!


	12. Chapter 11: The Dragon

 

> _ Beware, the dragon.  _
> 
>  

 

That was not something John had ever imagined he would come to experience. The thick violet fog slithering up at their sides made it almost impossible to breathe, and it swallowed most of the light around their bodies, shrouding them in darkness and causing the blonde to barely be able to see past his own nose, let alone at Sherlock’s figure cradled in his arms. He tried to move, to swim back towards the ship, but the smoke was almost tangible, tying itself around him and forbidding him from leaving the open ocean in which he was desperately, vulnerably, floating. 

All sound from outside was muted, and the blonde could only hope everyone back at the ship was okay. He tightened his grip on the other, trying to shake the feeling of imminent doom away, when the strangest thing began to happen. It started on the other’s forehead; when he looked down to make sure the boy was safe, Sherlock’s skin, pale from the cold with strands of hair stuck to it, took on a slight lilac hue; not at all alike to lack of oxygen; but more like a shimmer brimming beneath the surface and shinning through it. The faint glow then radiated all through his body as the rebel remained unconscious to everything around him. John shook him desperately, but his attempts proved futile as the laughter in the water filled the blonde’s head and trapped him further inside the sea’s arms. 

Just as he was trying to look out from the mist, hopeful to find a way to help their situation; out of the body, like bursting fireworks, jumped a million of bright purple lights. They shot out towards the sky as the smoke quickly dissipated, startling him and leaving his view clear to stare at the star-dotted blackness above; witnessing as the light formed a thin, long flare when it reached maximum altitude. Then, as it was falling through the air, it expanded; wings sprouted from the figure, extending in an intricate pattern above them and rushed forwards across the space, only the two piercing green eyes breaking the colour scheme. John wondered through the shock how none of them had seen this coming before now. 

A piercing gasp sounded from the vessel, the ship being slowly squished by giant tentacles almost being forgotten inside the king’s mind at the face of the truth. The people on it backing further and crouching away from the glowing violet dragon soaring above their heads. None of them sparing one glance at John or the figure clutched in his arms. A deep growl resonated from the beast in the sky, as a magic flame of bright light emerged from its mouth and landed right at the centre of the wooden deck, worryingly near the guests.

The king’s blue eyes stared at the scene in disbelief, unable to marry the vision of the glowing destruction in the sky with that of the vulnerable boy on his hold. Almost sure _that_ couldn’t be his Sherlock in there, but knowing better than to doubt it. Screams of terror resonated across the ocean as people avoided being blasted by magic and cowered away from the edges. John failed to determine which of the two creatures was causing them more horror at the moment. 

The blonde clutched the rebel to his chest, in a foolish attempt to soothe him from the reactions at what he was doing. Not even knowing whether Sherlock had a say on the winged-creature’s behaviour or if he could perceive his arms around his body. The clear rage towards the gargantuan cephalopod curled around the vessel, as if it were a treasure his to destroy, was palpable in the sparkling flyer. The violet dragon not sparing one moment of his impossible existence worrying about the people aboard the ship in order to challenge its hateful grip on it. 

John had to figure out a way to stop the confrontation fast; because no side would win that way. Which would only bring devastation to his people. But it seemed that as along as there was a threat exuded from the sea monster, the sky serpent would attempt to stop it, whatever it took. 

The blonde, now able to move, paddled closer towards the ship, when another body in the water caught his attention. Eurus was a few meters away, swimming aimlessly as she studied the dragon’s attempts to sink the watercraft along with all creatures on top —or around— it. Flashes of what the rebel had described as curses the last time, smashed into the swirling nature of the tendrils in the form of flames, but the kraken didn’t retreat, instead gripping more forcefully on the ship until a sickening crunch was heard. No attempts coming from Lady Hudson to deter it seemed to work either. 

Eurus had been impassive, almost too focused on her own spell to notice John’s presence before, but that soon changed as she sensed movement closer to her. She turned around to stare at him with dead eyes and passive expression until her gaze caught in Sherlock’s frame hanging from his difficult grip, his head lolling back uncomfortably. She smiled, a stunted thing breaking out across her face. She spared one last glance at them and dived back into the ocean, away from sight once more. 

That’s when John noticed something else he was overseeing. Before, Moriarty had been able to move and walk, going as far as holding an intelligent conversation with them, but Sherlock was still not responding. Barely breathing anymore, as his chest spasmed in erratic and shallow inhalations. The blonde placed a dripping wet hand over it and felt his heartbeat slow down to worrying frequency. He shot his gaze towards the sky, where the creature soared gracefully, piercing the sky as if owning it, lively claiming its rightful place as king among the stars; and then he darted his eyes back to the boy, now even his hair appeared devoid of any colour, sinking away into a general dull grey. That’s when John realised, this spell, whether voluntary or not, was killing him. 

He tried not to panic, but the situation was not exactly inducing a lot of calming thoughts into his mind. A sudden splash propelled water rushing towards him, colliding with them and sending them both underwater, the royal barely able to keep the rebel in his hold as they were jostled and twirled inside the wave. A feeling of pause rushed inside of him as they both were suspended in the water’s domain, allowing him to catch a glimpse at the bottom of the ship, covered in darkness as thick as ink but with no sight of any form of body around it as he had previously thought; the limbs seeming to spring from the depths of the ocean itself. John swam to the surface, breaking and inhaling a great burst of air as it rushed inside his lungs when he realised what had caused the angry tides: one fallen tentacle was dissipating in the water as dust, while an opening in between the ones gripping the ship appeared. The winged beast surprisingly appeared to be making progress.

“Help!” John yelled, hoping to catch the attention from someone on deck, his sight trained upwards as The Dragon fought to dislodge another tendril. The king swam against the unnatural waves crashing into the side of the ship and thwarting every attempt the curses made to win. 

Sherlock’s frame shook in his arms, “We need to get you out of the water,” The blonde whispered, not stopping one second as he looked around for a way to get back up. Eurus’ pull on the tides under them was still perceivable and it worried him, even if John had no actual visual of her. To him, having her out of sight was worse.

Then, right between two thick, wiggling limbs and over the railing, Lestrade’s head appeared, squinting at the water as he tried to locate them. “Greg, here!” The royal yelled. Lestrade’s face transformed into recognition, as he slapped the arm of the boy next to him and startled him into action. John waited anxiously. 

Moments later, a rope ladder was thrown from the deck and the blonde wasted no time in climbing it. The process made difficult by Sherlock’s weight hanging from one of his arms. The king got up to the deck, carefully laying Sherlock flat as a sharp impact almost caused all of them to tumble, “I can’t wake him up.” He said, not even having the sense to hide his hopeless panic as he teared off the boy’s shoes and ran frantic hands over Sherlock’s torso, searching for injuries, _anything,_ that could tell him how he could fix him. “Just, please-” He said, ignoring completely the several worried faces of his friends gathered around them.

“I may be able to rouse him, dear.” Lady Hudson said, breaking out of the crowd and kneeling beside him. She gently dislodged the painful grip he had on the boy and hovered her own fingers over his form in assessment. “I can.” She concluded. The blonde’s soul seeming to drain out of him in hesitant relief at the words. “But there’s a good chance he won’t be able to hold both forms yet.” She explained, as she placed both her hands over his chest. “It will probably sever the link between him and the dragon.”

“It doesn’t matter.” John was quick to respond, not a hint of hesitance in his gaze as he alternated from apprehensively staring at Sherlock’s impassive, extremely pale face, and the magical battle in which they were trapped. The tendrils had managed to close almost all the way, meeting each other in the middle of the air like vines to create a sort of dome over their heads. Several empty spaces remained from which the beast could be seen flying around and attempting to penetrate it. “We need him more that we need a dragon right now.” He said, the conviction making Lestrade stare at him as if he had finally lost his head; and honestly, John was not sure he hadn’t.

“Are you sure about that?” Greg asked, his brown eyes fixed on the smoke tentacles closing in around them and the empty laughter that echoed across the skies.

“Yes.” The king answered, feeling his own heart beating louder as he stood up from the crouching position. “Just do it.” He said, and with a last longing glance towards the violet-haired boy under Hudson’s ministrations, he nodded, turned around and marched towards the railing.

“Wait!” Irene yelled back after him. “Where are you going?” Her drenched hair around her face was almost black in the near darkness inside the sea creature’s prison.

“I’d like a chat with his sister.” He responded, his tan fingers curling into fists as he walked. Fire sludging inside his veins when he approached the edge of the ship.

“No, wait!” Janine said, following far behind him hurriedly. “What do we tell him when he wakes?” She asked, her panicked steps coming to a halt when he answered.

“That we’re _not_ our parents.” John heard himself answer. Perhaps more ominously than he had intended, but the truth was that he wasn’t entirely certain what he was about to do would work, and this wasn’t the time for empty platitudes. With _her_ , nothing in his life was sure anymore. He stood on the ledge of the deck, climbing unto the first bar of the railing and supporting himself in one of the remaining light poles. He screamed Eurus’ name to entice her to come out and face him.

After a few moments, a teal-blue head could be made out at the middle of the ocean before him. The soaked waves of her hair giving her an appearance of a drowned corpse as she peered analytically up at him from down there.

“Give him to me.” She worded, the order too calm for such a decisive action. It made John shiver in his wet clothes at how sure she sounded, as if it was, in every way, inevitable. The king stood straighter and pressed his lips into a thin line to avoid the blinding wrath from coming out. “He belongs to me.” She continued, “He has been mine from the second he was born.”

The blonde fought the urge to laugh. There wasn’t only rage at the nerve she had at attempting to sink the ship and kill everyone on board just to see what Sherlock would do, —to _acquire_ him— but he felt personally outraged at her plan to spell him and involve him in the worst heartbreak he had seen the rebel experience. She may have witnessed his life since his birth, but the violet-haired was certainly not someone you could ever own, even if he were eager to let you. “That’s where you’re wrong.” He said. “If anything, he’s _ours_.” John was completely aware of the statement being as fanciful as his life had been lately. “All of us,” The movement he could feel behind him urged him on, giving him something akin to permission to express that which he had kept enclosed inside for so long. “I’ve worked very hard to make him stay and I’ll be damned if I let you take him to turn him into your lab rat.” 

The girl appeared curious at his words, frowning amusedly and smiling up at him as several tides gathered around her and almost elevated her out from the surface. “You are nothing.” She concluded, as her hand moved towards him. The grip John had on the pole slipped, —as if he had been yanked down— making him fall overboard for the second time that day. He awkwardly managed to wrap an arm around a bar before he dropped into the water, but it left him dangling precariously from the side of the ship as it rocked back and forth, almost as if it were attempting to shake him off. “No more than another naive king enslaved by his own meat like all the others before him.” Her words and insults, at this point, shouldn’t hurt as much; not when he was hanging loose ready to plummet into what would surely be certain death; but they did. He had already escaped the watery trap once, he doubted Eurus would be keen on letting him go for a second time, if only to watch how Sherlock would react. 

There was another horrible noise at his back, the ship caving in under the pressure from the beast and breaking at its centre. The screams coming from the guests on deck made a terrible backdrop for his situation. “Nothing special.” Eurus finished, smiling as she saw his hold on the rail starting to slip. 

John’s breathing quickened, he was barely able to hold on anymore, and the movement was certainly not helping. A roar sounded from the sky above, and he wondered for the first time what would happened to the kingdom, to his friends, to _Sherlock,_ after he was gone. Sure now that he was going to fall and the ocean would swallow him whole, and they — _he_ — would be left behind, wondering what had happened. 

The king closed his eyes and took a deep breath as his arm began to slide with the force of gravity. He attempted to heave himself up, but all he accomplished was to catch a glimpse at barefoot feet on the deck before the weight of his body forced him down again, with just on hand to support him this time. 

“Trust me, I know.” He said, figuring the time for lies and secrets was long gone at this point.

Eurus smiled up at him. Satisfied he could at least recognise it in himself, even if it was just before his demise. Her teal gaze fixed on him so she would not lose one moment when he finally let go and allow himself to fall. She was so concentrated on the feeble grip that she failed to notice the smile upon his face. “But _he’s_ not.” John said, just before a big purple blast shot out from the deck of the ship and knocked her backwards into the water.

Sherlock was standing at the edge of the ship, his eyes glowing lime green like a man possessed and his figure backed by a smaller dragon behind him. His knuckles turning white as the translucent purple beast rushed right through him and advanced ruthlessly towards her.

“No, no!” She screamed, the emotion on her voice genuine for the first time. “You don’t know about the curse yet!” She said, but no explanation had time to come forth as the magical flame gracefully charged at her and consumed her completely. 

There was a pause, and when the sparks and smoke disappeared and left behind only an empty sea, the tendrils on the ship withered and recoiled back into the depths of the ocean from whence they had come. “Say hello to The Isle for me.” John whispered, and took a moment to sigh in relief as he saw the storm dissipate away and take the glowing dragon with it.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Sherlock grimaced as he attempted to merge both consciousness, which he was probably doing wrongly if the ear-piercing shriek the dragon made when he was trying to summon it back into his body was any indication. His eyes hurt from squeezing them close as he finally felt life rushing back into him once again. Colouring the edges of his transparent form while he was fully filled. 

His clothing and hair were completely dry now, yellow suit and bare feet gone and replaced for a black and purple one with the heavy leather coat over it. Tiny flames still magically burning in some of the edges as a faint glowing-green smoke appeared once he swatted and blew them to extinction. Sherlock ignored the singed edges as he turned to look at the crowd standing stupefied over the cracked wooden deck. The rebel thought perhaps they should do something about _that_ , once all of their scarce brains came back online. 

“Well,” He said, as he blinked his eyes back into the usual silver grey. “Didn’t know I could do that.” The words were met with a chuckle coming from his right. Irene standing there, right on top of all the shattered pieces of the glass mosaic. She smiled with red smudged lips and patted down one last flame on his shoulder.

“That makes two of us.” She said, presenting her arm for him to walk with her once more. Sherlock rolled his eyes but obliged nonetheless. Slowly making their way among the surprised faces. 

“What happened to your nice yellow suit?” The girl asked once they had reached the back of the ship. Molly’s face staring at him with a trace of worry as she practically hanged from Greg’s arm. 

Sherlock heard John’s quiet voice approach them from behind as he answered. “Canary yellow and blue make me feel like a moron,” He said, the trace of amusement present in his voice as he haughtily smiled. “No offence to all you morons out there.” Irene swatted him in the arm as he laughed while Lestrade crossed his strong arms over his chest and shook his head in amusement. Tiny drops of water falling from his hair with the movement.

“Too late,” Janine said, her deep pink, strapped dress dragging behind her as she walked to them. “You’re one of us now.” Her conclusion was worded tauntingly, making the violet-haired grimace in distaste at the very thought.

“I’ll first pluck my own eyelashes.” He dead-panned, and Molly finally let out a nervous laugh from between the fingers over her mouth. The rebel glanced at her and arched an eyebrow in approval

“That sounds like there’s a possibility to me.” Janine said, which was technically true, although Sherlock didn’t exactly gave a lot of hope to their chances. Her delicate hands were placed over her hips, as several of the present stared at him in hope of a reply. 

“Well,” He sneered, his eyes squinting at her in defiance. “ _Thankfully_ I didn’t ask for-” Sherlock started but was abruptly stopped by John’s deep voice right behind him. 

“You’re such an arse.” He commented, his tone somehow both exasperated and fond. There was a big, broad smile over his face when the boy turned to face him. The strands sticking to his forehead almost light brown when wet and the crown, once again placed over his head, appeared even bolder as it glinted with all the destroyed decorations around them. The blonde leaned sideways and peered at his beautiful gift laying in a million pieces over the floor and regarded its destroyer with an expression demanding explanation.

“And what are you going to do about it?” Sherlock asked, placing his hands behind his back and raising both his deep violet eyebrows in challenge. He leaned the upper part of his body forward and carefully worded. “My King?” 

John smirked at him in respect, and the moment the other’s posture relaxed back he reached out, wrapped one arm around the other’s waist and yanked him forward for a startling kiss.

“Blimey,” Greg commented with a deep grimace over his features as Molly elatedly giggled next to him. “Alright, alright.” Lestrade placed a hand over John’s shoulder and pulled him away from the other, making the king look around at the crowd around them with deep red cheeks. Sherlock, for his part, felt indifferent at the face of it, if anything, a bit smug as he smiled innocently at them in victory.

“I owe you guys so much.” The blonde said, his hands now wriggling awkwardly as his blue eyes searched the other’s for agreement. His bottom lip disappeared when his upper teeth bit into it in contrition.

“Yeah.” Irene was quick to reply, releasing a hesitant laugh from the blonde. She was utterly right, even if the whole affair with Eurus and her necklace hadn’t been his doing. Sherlock fixed his gaze on John’s movements as he placed his hands inside his pockets. 

“You got that right.” Lestrade agreed and amicably slapped the other’s back with both hands. The king laughed freely this time, lowering his face in a polite attempt to hide his elated relief at their words. The violet-haired fixed on it as he stood silently with one hand still clutching John’s upper arm.

“If there’s anything that you need,” The blonde promised. “Or that I can do for you, you just need to-”

“There is,” Irene came forward, gesturing with one slender hand in the air. “I know of a boy in The Isle who would love to come here.” She said, and Sherlock agreed silently as he thought of how fitting that would be. 

“Great!” John exclaimed, seemingly surprised at the perfect idea that was. “Then he should come.” He said earnestly as she smiled pleased. The others around him hesitantly delighted as the silence descended. 

“Actually,” Irene startled them all again. The silver-gazed arching an eyebrow at her outburst. “I’ll send you the list of my demands.” She said, with a sultry smirk gracing her face as she crossed her arms. “I’d say it isn’t long but that would be lying.” 

“Then, I’ll look forward to negotiating it.” John answered. 

“Brother mine,” Mycroft came forward then, and Sherlock’s eyes squinted with emotion and relief at seeing his brother’s face, as much as he would never admit it —despite wanting to laugh at the figure he made, drenched to the bone as he was. “A spell book has been found below deck.” The ginger said, presenting said object forward. “Shall Lady Hudson place it in the vault?”

The rebel hesitated for a moment, turning to look at John in uncertainty. When he was about to reply Lady Hudson pitched in, making her way through the crowd. “You know what?” She said, taking the book from the advisor with careful hands and turning to offer it to the boy. “He’ll keep it for now, dear.” She declared.

“He will?” Mycroft turned around, alarmed at the preposterous idea. John silently chuckled next to Sherlock at the scene. 

“Yes, young man.” Lady Hudson answered. “He will.” Her order was final as she surprised everyone by grabbing the violet-haired boy and wrapping her arms around him in a crushing hug. Sherlock smirked as John shook his head in disbelief and amusement. 

After that, the crowd dissipated. Going to find shelter and peace after the horrors they had faced that day. John and Sherlock had chosen to stay behind, leaning over the railing and contemplating over the horizon.

“You know,” The blonde commented, his gaze still fixed on the distance. “For someone who says he doesn’t believe in heroes,” He said, smiling softly at the notion. “You seem to be doing a lot of saving.” He turned his face to regard the other.

“I’ll call you _‘Hamish’_ for the rest of my life, don’t test me.” The rebel responded passionately, a warning in his voice which was completely mitigated by the fondness in his eyes. 

The blonde smirked but stared at him with hopeful eyes. “So you’re staying?” He asked and twisted around to place his elbows on the bars. 

“Hardly have a choice now, do I?” Sherlock’s shoulders shrugged in his leather coat.His haughty face framed by the jagged collar. “You lot are worse than useless.” He said, his hands now expressing animatedly, while the king listened with full attention. “A psychopath shows up attempting to conquer the kingdom with his adopted son-” 

“You mean you.” Was John’s helpful account, which the rebel ignored and talked over completely. 

“And my crazy sister now brings a _Kraken_ to your doorstep and what do you do?” He asked, John’s face conveying he wasn’t sure whether the violet-haired actually required an answer. “Sit back and watch! How relaxing for all of you.” Sherlock exclaimed, yet the other didn’t appear fazed in the slightly. Instead, he stared at him as if he could see through every layer of meaning each sentence he uttered possessed.

“Plus, they don’t deserve the privilege of destroying Auradon.” The rebel added, now pacing around him as he expelled his thoughts directly from his brain. “That should be me,” A hint of animosity was hidden behind his tone, his face scrunching up in annoyance at the mere concept of it. “And let’s face it, it still might.” He concluded, only to watch a cautioning expression grace John’s handsome features. His eyebrow was raised as he mimicked his actions from before. The silver-gazed sighed and smiled innocently. “Entirely by accident, I assure you.” He said, and the royal’s face relaxed even if it still harboured an empty suspicion beneath. 

“Well, I should hope so,” John responded. “Since you’ll do all the cleaning up yourself after.”

Sherlock felt affronted for a moment, glaring at the other as a big playful grin appeared over the blonde’s face. He stepped up to him and reached for the crown on top of his head, tilting it sideways. “And what will you be doing?” He asked absentmindedly as he beamed, satisfied at his own ministrations.

“Sit back,” The king swatted his hands away in order to hold his gaze. “Watching you work.” He said. “You know how _useless_ I can be.” The cheekiness inside him bursting forward as Sherlock stood impressed. Smiling truthfully at the ridiculous royal.

Of course, Sherlock being Sherlock, couldn’t remain complacent for long and he was quick to sigh as if exasperated. “Never mind,” He said, a disgusted scowl over his features now. “I hope someone _does_ invade the kingdom.” The rebel concluded as the other chuckled, looking around to the castle across the water in the far distance. “Or at least paint it a different colour.” He said. 

John laughed but stayed quiet after that, his blue eyes silently searching for something inside the silver gaze as Sherlock grew restless at his scrutiny. The faint lines over the blonde’s face deepening with his concentration. “I really missed you.” He finally said. As if the conclusion was as surprising for him as it was for the rebel. 

A deep pang of emotion threatened to choke him into tears, but Sherlock smothered it down and scoffed casually. “It’s hardly time to miss anyone,” He commented. “I was only gone one night.”

The royal stared at him in what could only be described as _‘adoration’,_ and the violet-haired’s cheeks warmed at the thought of the other regarding him in that way, when he, in no sense of the truth, deserved it. “No,” John assured, taking the ring he had recovered earlier on deck and sliding it on the rebel’s slender finger. “You weren’t.” He said.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Perhaps plotting mild revenge against one of his —half— siblings right after what had happened with Eurus was considered a bit not good, but Sherlock could hardly help himself. After Mycroft had scurried the king away into the bridge to talk to the ship’s captain and discuss a few official matters which _‘needed to be solved with utmost haste’_ according to him, the violet haired boy had to try hard not to strangle him, having had enough of relatives for the day. He sighed and placed both arms over the railings as he schemed, if all else failed, disappearing someone’s hair had always been a classic. 

The majority of the citizens aboard were gathered at the centre of the deck. Lady Hudson had ordered that everyone kept close and on sight for easier control and protection of their safety as she repaired the vessel so it would take them back to shore. They huddled in groups, exchanging stories and opinions over the night’s events. Occasionally, some of them turned to look at him, and he did his best to just ignore them. Tramping down the impulse to flash bright green eyes at them just to watch them turn back around in fright.

Sherlock remained perched over the railing, away from the crowd, for quite some time. Somehow entranced by the view of the tranquil waves lapping at the side of the ship. The rebel had always found water a very great source of discomfort, specially in such an endless form as this. Avoiding it as much as he could even when he knew it was absurd. He now found knowing the reason for his aversion didn’t really ease the feeling as he had once thought it would; appearing to enhance it actually. The undeniable reality was that deep waters, specially vast oceans, hid too many unsolvable mysteries in which he would forever be snared by the very same doubts he was trying to escape.

“Are you alright?” Irene’s sultry voice broke the silence of his absorption as she came to stand next to him at the edge of the deck. Her long indigo hair still drying and framing her heart-shaped face as she stared at him questioningly.

Sherlock took a moment more to glance at the sea below in reassurance, to ascertain no danger was going to spurt upwards and grab him. “That wasn’t supposed to happen.” He sighed, ignoring Greg’s imposing figure gathering close on the other side. 

“What wasn’t?” Lestrade asked, his tone not hesitant in the slightly. His strong fingers gripped the top of the railing while he awaited for the forthcoming explanation. 

The rebel’s grey eyes regarded them both in turn, amazed at their readiness to aid in his explorations and spar through the demons inside his head. “The Dragon,” He explained, his tone almost hushed as if the mere mention of its title would make him come forward and _consume_ him completely again. “All of it.” He gestured his hands to his surroundings, ambiguously referring to nothing and everything that he couldn’t quite discern about the situation.

“Is that why you weren’t trapped last time?” Irene asked, her delicate eyebrows meeting at the centre of her frown, the red lips referring to something he rathered forget but, for the life of him, couldn’t.“With Moriarty?” She said, concluding from all other times the violet-haired boy had been utterly frustrated and desperate to find an explanation for that. 

The rebel saw Lestrade wince at the mention of his predecessor, not sure in whether he should perhaps do the same. Somehow, the answer making less sense than the question itself. “It shouldn’t be,” He said, pointedly ignoring the confusion over the other’s expressions. “That’s not how it works.” Because it wasn’t. In his fear-turned-fascination with the subject when he was very young, he had studied everything there was to know about the Dragon’s Spell and its implications; needless to say, there had been no record of something like this prior to him. “None of this makes any sense!” The exclamation possibly came startlingly to Irene and Greg, who stood staring at him, mouths agape at his outburst. 

Sherlock’s energy died down, as some people turned their gazes at them to figure out what the commotion was about. Greg cleared his throat and spoke. “But, hey!” He said, in a painful attempt to lighten the mood, all of them exhausted of impossible riddles and threats for the day. All of them except for Sherlock, of course —specially since John was not around to entertain him at the moment. Stupid Mycroft. “You’re The Dragon now,” He said, amicably punching one of his shoulders and managing to release a small, —mostly mocking— smirk on the rebel’s face. “That’s enough, yeah?” His friend asked, encouraging the girl to agree. 

Sherlock eyed them both, examining their hopeful faces; hair and clothes rumpled and ruined with the moisture. He directed his gaze to the horizon once more, the line where the black sky met with the seemingly calm water only broken by a jagged peak under a glimmering dome. The Island standing innocuously in the distance. 

“No need to go around poking for answers.” Irene commented, staring at him as her hand arranged his perfectly fitted —and completely dry— coat over his shoulders. “Right?” Her smile big enough to almost convince the stubborn silver-eyed to let it go, hiding her own apprehension well. He sighed, the sound barely audible over all the murmuring and the loud roaring of the engines quickly bringing them in towards the royal docks.

“Right.” He said, turning around and leaning his back over the railing, only to watch his friend’s expressions morph from worry to relief. Obviously satisfied by his sudden change of heart. 

The both of them stayed in silence for a few more moments, until they decided to retreat back into the crowd with a smile of reassurance. Sherlock watched as they walked away, Irene turned for one last glance at him, her face impossible to read when she turned back around and expressively joined the lively discussions and laughter. 

The rebel breathed deeply, his eyes darting around the deck; dancing over the guests and their ruined glamour. He then caught a glance of a reflecting light generating from among several seaweed and other wood debris to his left. “Right.” He whispered to himself once more as he recognised the metal object as the dragon sword Eurus had tried to drive through him on the Isle.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The plastic curtain opened quickly, and a small figured bounded inside with all the energy of the young. The little boy placed his bag over one of the paint-covered tables and turned the junk television on. Its fuzzy image providing an almost blinding light to cast over young Archie’s face. 

He sat on the floor, rolled up his sleeves —like he had seen Sherlock do— and started to inspect the items he had collected from other members of Sherlock’s villain-kids network. Arranging them into his carefully organised box. “His royal majesty, King John of House Watson,” Said a deep voice coming from the screen. “In response to a petition from his new counsellor: Irene of House Adler,” The voice said, and Archie smiled at the name, which had been in the news far more often lately. He really had missed all of them, and was glad he had way more material for his collection thanks to this development. “Hereby declares a new law shall be placed for the attendance of selected citizens from the designated _‘Isle Of The Lost’_ to Auradon, effective within a period of one moon-cycle.” The little head sprung up at that, watching with wide eyes as Sherlock’s brother spoke confidently of something that surely must be a dream. 

He sprung up in surprise as a wide, hopeful smile broke across his face. “Nominated candidates will be chosen according to their eligibility by a counsel created solely with the purpose of parsing through the applications continuously…” Archie could barely hear anymore after that, already excitedly searching for paper and pen to write down all the things the machine said he would have to do to get chosen. The box full of mementos of his dream life sat proudly and forgotten at the other side of the desk as the boy spent the whole night writing out his application and grinning with new-found hope for his life to change.

 

 

* * *

 

 

A black figure strolled through the kingdom at night. Concealed by the deep shadows of Auradon during a storm. Not sparing the rain falling over its head one single second of attention as it moved in the shadows gracefully. The guards at the door weren’t exactly surprised at seeing him, in fact they had probably been paid _not_ to have a reaction to anything that could happen at that place. Which was how he preferred it.

The figure tracked the mudded shoes over the front mat and entered through the corridor after the barred gate had been unlocked. The two royal knights tasked with keeping the prisoners inside walked behind him as another punched a code into the padlock next to the unassuming door. Silently stepping aside so he could enter the small room, and hastily slamming the door shut as soon as he was inside. 

He lowered the collar of his coat and shook off the rain from his purple curls as he stared at the immobile figure of the last person he wanted to see: James Moriarty. Still chained to the wall, the forceful security tying him to the panels and restricting his nearly dead frame to the small space. Sherlock wasted no time in contemplation this time, he simply kneeled in front of the man and placed his slender fingers over the other’s temples as he closed his silver eyes. Letting him merge both consciousness as the room around him disappeared and he was transported out somewhere else instantly. 

The padded walls transformed into a cavernous space, grey stone walls shrouding them as if they resided on the dungeons inside an ancient castle. The setting was a tad dull and unglamorous for Moriarty’s usual taste, yet he made up for it with the big glass box at the centre of it. More than two meters tall, and encasing a lavish red and gold throne inside. Jim was perched on it, laying sideways nonchalantly in an impeccable grey suit topped with a king’s thick cape. The bejewelled crown sat on his head casually, as if its weight had been perfectly balanced to rest on top of his head.

The violet-haired boy took a step towards him and into the light. “I thought you weren’t going to come anymore.” Jim said, bored tone permeating through the words as he stared at the ceiling, absentmindedly throwing a big blue amber into the air, only to catch it before it went out of reach.

“Yes, well,” Sherlock answered, shrugging his shoulders as his shoes paced him around the glass. The coat flapping behind him with the strange physics of the place. “When you give the sword that decapitated my mother to my sister with the intention of going after me, it sort of makes me want to talk.” He said, his haughty eyebrows lifted as he regarded the other. 

Moriarty raised his head, his deep brown eyes consuming the light around him as the boy felt something inside him unlatch and get eaten by that gaze. “Can you blame us?” The criminal asked, big serpentine grin breaking out his face into two. “You’re _irresistible_ , Sherly.” His sentences were worded carefully, Sherlock could note, precisely chosen to drill a hole right into his soul and come out on the other side, leaving him punctured. 

“You should’ve thought it twice before molding me to your image.” The rebel said instead. His confidence not wavering at Jim’s attempts to intimidate him. This was, in part, his own mind, and nothing could hurt him there now. He placed his hands behind him and his back straightened in the posture John always said made him look menacing. 

“Trust me, that was entirely selfish.” Moriarty answered, his head lolling back as he sprawled further into the cushioned seat, the mystery behind his meaning glowing in big bold letters for the silver-gazed. “I had plans for you, you see?” He continued, the expression over his face turning manic as he reminisced on something Sherlock could not see. “ _She_ had plans for you.” He said, and there was no question who _she_ was. The tone too familiar to him now, from every time the criminal spoke about his mother; although he failed to see how his and his mother’s plans could ever have an impact on him now, Moriarty still talked about them as if they were imminent. 

“Well, it didn’t work.” The rebel was quick to remind him, smirking at the other as he ignored the way the brown eyebrows frowned. “ _She’s_ dead and you’re here,” He explained, unable to exile the smugness from his voice. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t a right to feel proud of having sent them all into the abyss. Even if he had nothing to do with her demise. “You sent Eurus after me and that still didn’t matter either,” The violet-haired watched as the other let the amber drop to the floor forgotten. Sitting up interestedly to watch him through the crystal as he paced. “She came, and she’s gone. Back to The Isle.” The rebel said, “You warned me, said something big was coming, but now your threat is finished.” The words James had used with him last time he had been there still etched upon his mind like a brand. “I’ve won.”

The conclusion should make him feel satisfied, but it still left a sour taste in his mouth. Growing stale as Moriarty’s expression went from fascinated to amused. Outright laughing as he abruptly placed both his hands on the glass prison of his own doing. “Oh, Sherly,” He said, elated gaze looking up at him. The rebel had the strangest feeling, as if the criminal were _thanking him_ for saying that. For even daring to think it. “Don’t tell me you actually thought that was…” Jim said, as panic rose inside Sherlock, hating how, no matter what he managed to do, he always seemed to miss something when it came to the shadow that James Moriarty was in his life. 

His confused face must have given him away, because the laughter got significantly more intense as the raven haired stared at him, golden crown sparkling in the light. “This is delicious.” He said, machiavellian imagination displayed on the line of his excited shoulders. 

“What!?” Sherlock demanded, feeling as if had lived through this already. His life destined to remain stuck in the same track, digging a rut in front of him from which he proved unable to escape time and time again. Every step he took in the opposite direction pulling him straight back.

Moriarty’s roaring laughter deafening him. “Oh, Sherlock, no.” He said, as he shook his head. “ _That_ wasn’t it.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe it's actually finished! 
> 
> I had a lot of fun writing this and I really hope you liked it and would like to know what you thought of it. I'm planning the third (and final) part of the series and should come out in the future so be on the look out!
> 
> Thank you for everyone that read and invested their time in this story.
> 
> Stay weird and remember: imagination is the most dangerous weapon. -Impossible Element

**Author's Note:**

> If you liked it, check out my other stories.


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